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Chapter Text

“Wake up!”

     Fenris jolted awake at the sound of someone hissing in his ear. His heart lurched into his throat, and he looked around, wild-eyed, before realizing that Hadriana was staring down at him. “What? Mistress?” he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. It felt like he had put his head down on his pillow just two minutes ago.

     “Do you have any idea what time it is?” Hadriana hissed as she glared down at him. She was fully dressed in her lavender and gold robes, her shoulder-length black hair perfectly coiffed, her narrow face painted with dramatic rouge. “Danarius has been waiting on you for hours. He’s furious.”

     Fenris realized with a start that he had overslept somehow. He felt like he hadn’t been asleep for long, but he shoved his exhaustion down as he tore out of bed. Hadriana watched him with a smirk as he seized his trousers and jerked them on, then hurried out the door while still pulling on his vest.

     Danarius was going to be outraged when Fenris finally showed himself. He had never slept in before, not once in his short memory. Fenris flew down the stairs and into the kitchen, where there was supposed to be a pot of freshly brewed Antivan coffee waiting for his master.

     And there was no one in there.

     The kitchen was utterly dark and vacant. A rare hour when no one was in there, cooking or stoking the flames or scrubbing pots.

     Fenris stood in the doorway, breathing hard, white strands of his hair stuck to his sweaty forehead. Hadriana had lied to him. His face colored at the thought of her upstairs, gloating at his distress. It was the middle of the night and most of its inhabitants were asleep. Likely including Danarius.

     It took everything in his power not to swear in frustration. No one would have heard if he had hissed it under his breath while standing in the kitchen at Castellum Tenebris. But Danarius’s estate in Kirkwall, near the center of a high, stony neighborhood called the Garden, was a lot smaller. And in the cramped quarters, Danarius and his wretched apprentice seemed to hear everything.

     Fenris swallowed and resolved to go back to bed. He climbed the wide, polished staircase back to the second floor. Only a handful of guards were awake at this hour. One cracked a grin underneath his helmet as Fenris marched past, evidently aware of his folly. He tried not to notice.

     A yellow-orange glow flickered underneath the door of the master bedroom as he passed by: candles were still burning. Perhaps he had been wrong, or Hadriana, in her glee to drive him from sleep, had not realized. Danarius was either awake and still studying, as he tended to do late into the night and preferred not to be disturbed; or he had fallen asleep but left his candles burning, which put his room at risk of catching fire.

     Fenris chose to knock. “Master?”

     No answer came from inside.

     Fenris waited until an appropriate amount of time had passed, then he pushed the door open. It was never locked. It didn’t need to be. He was the only one who could tempt his master’s wrath by letting himself into his private quarters. Everyone else knew that a shut door was no different from a locked door.

     The bedchamber was dim and flushed in the fading, flickering light of candles burning low. Bookshelves overflowing with old tomes lined one wall, framing a writing desk that was piled high with sealed scrolls. A large bed, neatly made, dominated the other wall. There was no surface untouched. Everything held things: small trinkets like old rings, carved with worn-down dragon imagery, bought out of Orzammar; or a strange amulet found on a Saarebas under his robes; or piles of precariously stacked books, some without covers, many without titles. Oil paintings were hung on the papered walls. The curtains were drawn shut, and the candles burned down to stumps, and the fireplace burned low.

     Danarius was indeed awake. He was hunched over his writing desk, still dressed in his red and gold finery. His left hand cradled his forehead, the elbow perched on the edge of the desk. The room was silent except for the scratching of his quill on a sheet of parchment, punctuated with sharp jabs of the quill in the inkwell. It seemed that he didn’t notice Fenris enter his room.

     Fenris added wood to the fire and stoked it, coaxing brighter flames out of the hearth. Shadows danced over the cluttered walls and shone on the spines of the old books. The fire made him feel warm and tired. He wanted to go back to bed.

     Danarius seemed to notice him for the first time. “Oh, Fenris,” he mused. His tone held the sort of distracted lethargy that came whenever he roused himself out of his studies for the first time in hours. “I suppose you came to keep your master company.”

     “Mistress Hadriana woke me.” Fenris meant to elaborate, but he could think of no explanation that wouldn’t sound unreasonable. He turned his back to the fire. It was so warm in here. The rest of the estate, like the rest of the south, was miserably cold and slightly damp at all times. “Can I get you something, Master?”

     “Not unless you can fetch me the writings about Amgarrak Thaig, my little wolf,” Danarius replied. He was tired but in a good mood. “Three years ago, the Warden-Commander of Ferelden visited there personally at the request of House Dace. I’ve prepared a letter for her, but correspondence is slow over the Waking Sea. It will be some weeks before I hear back from her.” He leaned back in his seat, regarding Fenris thoughtfully. “I suspect that a visit to Orzammar in person might be necessary. I’ve never taken you to Orzammar, have I?”

     “No,” Fenris answered.

     “It’s warmer than the Free Marches. All that lava and smithing, trapped under the mountain. And the nobility there have a healthy respect for the work of magisters.” Danarius turned back to the desk and examined the scroll. He signed it with a flourish, a quick scratch of the quill, and held up the scroll. The flickering light of the fire glittered on the wet ink. “Come here and blow on this for me.”

     Fenris complied, crossing the room and leaning over his shoulder to blow on the wet ink. He was careful not to let it run or smudge. It was soon as dull as the rest of the lettering on the page.

     Danarius rolled the scroll between both hands then sealed it with wax. He pressed the seal of his House into the blood red wax and set it aside. “I think that will suffice for tonight.” He gestured vaguely to Fenris, but Fenris knew immediately what was expected of him.

     The room fell quiet as Fenris unfastened his mantle and carefully stowed it in the wardrobe. His fingers were gentle and quick as he worked to remove the complicated layers of his master’s robes. The current Tevinter style was defined points and glimpses of chainmail: pauldrons that were layered with cloth, pinned and teased like waves; hoods that were raised in a sharp point at the back of the head; robes that fell in sharp points around the knees; and an underneath, a gambeson-like robe, layered with fine chains that glittered in the light.

     Fenris returned to him one last time as he sat in the undermost layer of his robes, a striking red with black that fell to his knees, but Danarius reached out for his hand before he could remove it.

     “My shoulders are tense,” Danarius said. It was as much an order as a complaint.

     “You spend too much time at your desk, Master,” Fenris murmured as he stood behind him. He laid his hands on his master’s shoulders, pressing his thumbs against either side of his spine, and rubbed gentle circles into his stiff muscles.

     Danarius sighed, and with that sigh, his body visibly relaxed in Fenris’s hands. “You wouldn’t understand, my little wolf,” he mused after a few moments of silence.

     “No. I’m sorry, Master.”

     “You’re forgiven. You speak out of ignorance, after all.”

     Fenris made slow progress down his shoulders, kneading careful circles. It made his hands hurt to work like this. His tawny skin ached around the white lines carved down the backs of his hands. They climbed up his arms and across the rest of his body, spread all over him like the vines growing on the outside of the estate. It was lyrium, somehow set beneath the skin, and it throbbed like a three-day-old bruise whenever he was touched. Or was touching someone else.

     They were together in silence for what felt like a long time, until his feet ached from standing there, when Danarius reached up behind him. He ran his gnarled, broad hand over Fenris’s hand and along his arm, making the skin throb beneath his fingers. His fingers reached his elbow, then turned possessive, clamping down on his forearm like an iron shackle.

     Fenris felt himself go still, fear locking his muscles into place. “Master?”

     Danarius was out of his chair and on his feet in a second, no longer quiet and contemplative, but demanding and possessive. Fenris must have shown the fear that flickered through him, because his master wrapped one hand around his jaw and forced him to look up at him. “My Fenris,” he breathed possessively, not to Fenris, but to himself, almost in admiration of him. Then his mouth roughly claimed him.

***

Fenris awoke suddenly in the dark.

     The fireplace was reduced to smoldering embers, and the candles had flickered out long before they were finished, throwing the room into a damp, blue darkness with only the dim red glow from the hearth. Fenris shifted underneath the covers as much as he was allowed. His body ached, and wet pain throbbed between his legs. Danarius held him even in his sleep, one arm wrapped securely around his shoulders, drawing him tight against the side of his body.

     Fenris wasn’t exactly sure what awoke him, and when he couldn’t find the source of it, he laid his head back down on Danarius’s shoulder. He longed to return to sleep, but he found himself looking at the sleeping face of his master instead. Danarius never looked vulnerable, not even in sleep. His brows were drawn together in a frown, as if his dreams were troubling him. His pulse throbbed in the side of his neck, visible underneath his gray beard.

     Someone passed the bedroom door quickly. Then another. There were voices, too low to hear, murmuring just outside. The estate was waking up.

     It was still dark outside. Fenris wasn’t sure how long he’d slept—an hour or two, maybe—but now it was clear that he had to climb out of bed and see to his morning duties. He carefully shifted his master’s arm over him and dragged himself out of bed. Danarius continued to sleep, shifting only a little, turning his head and sighing in his sleep.

     Fenris put his feet down on the carpet and stood up. His white hair fell in loose tangles down to his shoulders; his body ached everywhere. The lyrium under his skin throbbed angrily, resentful of how he’d been handled the night before. But the cold was the closest thing to relief. It didn’t stop him from wrapping his arms around his naked chest and rubbing his upper arms, agitating the lyrium but coaxing warmth back into his skin.

     The sight of it caught his eye before he turned: a small, dark spot on the sheets, near the center of the bed. Blood.

     Fenris paled. Danarius would be furious if he found out that he’d bled on the sheets. These were expensive sheets, he recalled, and he’d been outraged by similar things in the past. He leaned over and made his side of the bed in a silent panic, bringing the covers up to the pillows and smoothing them out with quick strokes of his hands.

     A plan came together in his head as he looked around for his clothes.

     Today was Summerday. Danarius was throwing a party in celebration of it later this evening. The whole estate would be cleaned from top to bottom in preparation for the festivities. He could switch out the sheets when he cleaned the bedchamber later in the morning. Send the dirty set down to the laundress for cleaning. She was a hired servant, an elven woman from the local alienage, but she kept to herself.

     Fenris laced up his trousers, tugged on his vest, and hurried out of the room without making a sound. The first thing he had to do was get Danarius out of bed without noticing.

***

The kitchen had become a source of chaos in the last hour. A fire blazed angrily in the hearth, stoked to greater heights by a servant, another local hire from the alienage. It was sweltering in the kitchen, the heat clinging to his skin. The head cook was barking orders at another servant kneading bread dough, and two more were rolling out pie shells. There was so much flour in the air that he could almost taste it.

     “Where is Danarius’s meal?” the head cook barked at the sight of him.

     An unfamiliar and beleaguered-looking elf shoved a silver tray into Fenris’s hands. It was covered with a folded white napkin, bearing a cup of black coffee and a serving of spiced bread floating in a small bowl of broth. The smell normally made his mouth water, but this morning it made him feel nauseous.

     When was the last time he’d eaten? The answer came to him after a second: early yesterday afternoon, when Orana shoved a helping of bread and cheese into his hands.

     Fenris turned and headed back out of the kitchen. He almost bumped into an elven servant carrying a basket of chicken eggs, who side-stepped him at the last second and swore at him over her shoulder. But he didn’t have it in him to care. He felt hollow, so tired and hungry. That was overshadowed by a real sense of panic, blooming in the empty pit of his stomach as he climbed the stairs to the second floor.

***

Danarius was awake when Fenris returned to the bedroom. There was a palpable feeling in the room that screamed danger and made his skin itch. He tried to keep his expression blank as he crossed the room with the silver tray and set it down on the edge of the writing desk, as he had done hundreds of mornings before.

     “Coffee, Master,” Fenris announced. His voice cracked on Master. He swallowed, trying to wet his throat with saliva. “Is there anything else you—”

     “My little wolf.” Danarius spoke thinly. He rose to his feet and clasped his hands behind the small of his back. His gray eyes fixed him with a dangerous look. He knew. “Do not lie to me.”

     Fenris felt panic close his throat. He backed away from the writing desk, his gaze flickering involuntarily to the bed. Someone had drawn the covers halfway down the feather-stuffed mattress, neatly folding them over once and smoothing out the crease. And there, near the center of the bed, was the small bloodstain. No more than a few drops, but a stain on the otherwise crisp white sheets.

     “Did you think you could hide it from me?” Danarius hissed, and it was almost worse than shouting.

     “N-no, never—”

     Danarius seized the coffee cup and hurled it at the wall past Fenris. It smashed into the wall and exploded in a shower of porcelain, splattering coffee all over the papered wall. Fenris flinched but dared not move. His heart was beating fast in his chest.

     “There is a punishment for lying,” Danarius seethed as he crossed the room in two strides. He seized Fenris by his white hair, gripping it in his fist at the back of his head.

     “Master, please, I would never—” Fenris cut himself off mid-sentence when Danarius tightened his fingers in his hair, pulling on it so much that he thought the strands were going to start snapping away from his scalp. Pained tears welled in the corners of his eyes.

     Danarius jerked his hand down, wrenching Fenris’s head back. He sagged almost to his knees, but Danarius held him at a height that forced him to stay on his feet, his legs awkwardly bent, his spine painfully curved. His steel-gray eyes fixed him with a murderous glare, but his composure was frighteningly cold and restrained. “Do you know what would happen if I ripped the lyrium out of your flesh, my ungrateful wolf? You would be awake for every single second of the torturous process, and you would likely die of blood loss before it was over. It would take hours.”

     Fenris could barely breathe, light and quick, like a hare. He was going to die here. Danarius was going to kill him this time.

     Danarius hauled him over to the bed and threw him down with a sharp yank of his hair, finally releasing him as he collapsed onto the mattress. Fenris scrambled on his back away from him, but Danarius seized him by the ankles and dragged him back to the edge. His elbow landed on the bloodstain, now dry. The stained fabric was coarse underneath his skin.

     Fenris stopped struggling. He looked up at his master in terror. Words were beyond him.

     Danarius placed a hand on his throat and pinned him to the mattress, forcing him flat on his back. His elbow slipped out from underneath him. “If you make a sound, even a whimper,” he warned darkly, “I will have your mouth sewn shut. Do you understand me?”

     Fenris nodded once. He didn’t make a sound.

***

It was late in the morning when Fenris was shoved out of the master bedroom with a command to clean himself up. He stood outside the door in numb shock. His skin screamed in agony; not just the lyrium, but his flesh, aching and sore. One of the guards made a noise that sounded like a cough or a laugh but said nothing. Fenris ignored it and proceeded towards the slaves’ quarters. He had his master’s orders. It was hard to walk straight, but he managed.

     The preparations for the evening’s celebration developed around him like a storm. No one spoke to him or acknowledged him, and for that, he was grateful. It was a relief to be ignored.

     There was no one in the slaves’ quarters when Fenris arrived. Everyone was awake and too busy with their chores to see his shameful return. Their cots and things had been quietly stored for the day, leaving the floor clear. There was a small adjoining washroom through the other side of the room. It held a single wooden tub, full of cold, gray water slick with soap, that all of them shared.

     Orana was inside the washroom, her blonde hair falling free of her bun, her sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She straightened up at the sight of him. “Oh, Fenris.” She greeted him with a smile. “Do you need this? Mistress told me to change out the bathwater immediately.”

     Fenris stopped just inside the threshold. He felt very far away from himself at that moment, numbly aware of the tears that had dried on his cheeks and the angry pain throbbing between his legs. “Master told me to bathe,” he croaked.

     “He must want to show off you to the nobles tonight.” Orana examined the washtub for a moment. “I suppose Mistress won’t mind a delay.” But her tone sounded doubtful.

     “I’ll make it quick,” Fenris promised her. “Then I’ll help you carry it out.”

     Orana blushed. “I’m supposed to do it alone.”

     Fenris smiled thinly at her. “You can’t,” he said, glancing down at her petite frame. It was a bold thing to say, and he wasn’t sure where it came from.

     Orana rubbed her forearms nervously and looked around. “Alright,” she agreed hesitantly. She flashed him another nervous smile. “Thank you. I’ll be right outside if you need anything.” She ducked out of the washroom and tugged the door shut behind her before he could respond.

     Fenris peeled off his vest and his trousers. A clinical examination of his smallclothes revealed a small amount of blood staining the hem in the back. He dropped them on the floor in a pile and stepped into the water, arranging himself so that he could keep an eye on the door. The grayish water left a soapy film on his skin wherever it touched him. He could hardly imagine feeling any cleaner afterward, but the cold water was a relief to his aching body.

     He was alone. For the moment.

     Instead of grabbing the soap, Fenris pulled his knees to his chest and sat in the cold water, staring vacantly at the door.

Chapter Text

“Hold still.”

     Fenris stood in the center of the master bedchamber, dressed in a clean pair of black leather trousers and a short vest. His white hair had been drawn out of his face and tied into a knot at the back of his head, exposing the lines that climbed from his throat to his lower lip and the three dots in the center of his forehead. He was very careful not to look at the bed, which had been made again in his absence with fresh sheets.

     Hadriana had been given the task of dressing Fenris in his armor. It would have been a slave in Tevinter, but Danarius had been careful since their arrival in Kirkwall. She fastened the various pieces of armor to his body under their master’s watchful eye, looking annoyed whenever she thought he wouldn’t notice.

     “There have been a great deal of templars patrolling in the Garden, Master,” Hadriana said. She tightened Fenris’s left vambrace with a sharp jerk, grunting with the effort. “No doubt they will be loitering outside tonight, waiting for an excuse to break down the door.”

     “Do you have doubts, Hadriana?” Danarius asked. A benign question that carried a threat.

     Fenris stared beyond them at a vacant spot on the papered wall. The coffee stain was still there. Someone had tried to clean it up and only succeeded in scrubbing it deeper into the paper, where it had dried and wrinkled. He was exhausted and hungry, despite having no desire to sleep or eat.

     Hadriana turned away from Fenris to look at Danarius. “Whatever use you see in this city is rapidly drying up, my dear Master. The knight-commander has brought an iron fist down on the lyrium smugglers.”

     “She has been tightening her grip ever since the Viscount was killed during the Qunari occupation,” Danarius mused thoughtfully. He seemed unaware but unsurprised by the revelation. “It was a mage who killed the Arishok. An apostate. She is the new Champion of Kirkwall.”

     “How interesting,” Hadriana replied in a tone that clearly meant she didn’t find it interesting at all.

     “The Champion has thoughtfully accepted my invitation for tonight. She’ll be pleased by the presence of my little wolf in his collar.” Danarius smiled coldly at Fenris. “I expect she will appreciate the irony, after everything she’s witnessed.”

     Hadriana fell silent as she fetched the collar from the armor rack. It was a mockery of the collars worn by the Saarebas: a heavy, black thing that clasped shut around his throat and was chained around his chest. She roughly slid it around the back of Fenris’s neck and snapped it shut. He winced at the sound. “Don’t move,” she hissed at him, giving the collar a sharp jerk and nearly causing his knees to buckle.

     Fenris swallowed the anger that rose up in his throat. He stared at the coffee stain on the wall again.

     Hadriana deftly locked the chains in place around his chest: one fell in the front down his sternum, another straight down his spine, and looped around his rib cage. The links clinked together at the slightest movement, and it weighed so heavily on him that it forced his spine to bend.

     “How do you know this will play well with the local nobles, Master?” Hadriana questioned. She took a step back and studied him as if he were an empty suit of armor that hadn’t been cleaned to her satisfaction. “They are not Tevinter. They may not care how the Qunari treat their mages.”

     “I suspect the Champion may feel differently.” Danarius approached Fenris and looped his fingers around the chain dangling over his sternum. Fenris flinched when the backs of his fingers brushed over his exposed skin. “But for the rest? It’s a spectacle. A mockery of those who took them captive in the keep and held them prisoner.”

     Hadriana stood behind him, narrowing her eyes at the back of his head. “You seem to be putting a great deal of thought towards the Champion’s benefit, Master,” she said with a sweetness that didn’t match her facial expression. “I hope you aren’t considering taking on another apprentice.”

     Danarius didn’t look at her. He was looking at the chains. “She killed the Arishok. Imagine that talent with proper Tevinter guidance. Imagine how it could be…nurtured.”

     Someone knocked at the door.

     Danarius gestured for Fenris to answer. He felt the weight of the collar around his neck as he moved, the chains clinking together with every step. Fenris opened the door to find Orana standing outside. She jumped back a little at the sight of him.

     “Um, Master?” Orana asked nervously, peering around him. “The first guests have begun to arrive.”

     “Good, good,” Danarius replied.

     Hadriana advanced on the door, quick as lightning. “And you come up here to waste our time instead of serving our guests?” she demanded, twisting at the waist and backhanding the poor girl across the face.

     Orana cried out and staggered to the side, then sunk to her knees. She clutched her reddened cheek with one trembling hand. A guard standing near the door winced at the contact.

     “Get up!” Hadriana snarled. “Fetch the wine! Must I tell you to do everything? Are you daft, girl?”

     “Y-yes, Mistress,” Orana stammered as she pushed herself to her feet. Her large green eyes shone with unshed tears. “Sorry, Mistress.” She fled down the corridor.

     Danarius seemed more annoyed by the delay than anything else. He turned back to Fenris and reached out to him. Fenris flinched when he grabbed him by the chin, rubbing his thumb over the white vines that curled up to his mouth. His skin ached at the contact. “You will be armed tonight, my little wolf,” he ordered. “Kill the templars if they dare to interfere.”

***

The Summerday party was unlike anything else that Fenris had witnessed. There were no magisters and none of their sniveling apprentices. Those that were invited were the rich and the well-connected. They were announced as they arrived: Marcher nobility, Orlesian lords and ladies, Antivan merchants. Minstrels played violins. Slaves wandered through the gathered crowds, offering wine to the guests. Fenris spied Orana among them. She had applied her rouge with a heavy hand; the red mark Hadriana left on her could have been mistaken for cosmetics.

     Fenris observed the guests from his spot against the northern wall, but he was having a hard time keeping his mind off the food. The kitchen had been in chaos for most of the day as it prepared the feast that would be served later tonight. Now the scent of it wafted out of the kitchen and lingered as far as the main hall. His mind kept going back to it, trying to pick out the scents. Baked bread. Something fruity and heavily spiced. Something roasted and meaty. Unfamiliar recipes, but they made his mouth water all the same.

     Comte and Comtesse de Launcet were announced. A middle-aged couple in silk and velvet arrived, and the Comtesse immediately spied another noblewoman and bent over to whisper something to her husband.

     Fenris took his eyes off them and looked around the hall. The other guests marveled at all the little things on the walls. Three of them gathered to whisper scandalously about an oil painting of the Imperial Divine. Danarius was conversing with another that had become intrigued by the marble bust of a dignified-looking man with a long, braided beard.

     “Is that Hessarian?” the man questioned curiously.

     “Indeed, it is!” Danarius answered. “Hessarian is especially revered in my native Tevinter.”

     Seneschal Cavin was announced, a middle-aged man with vibrant red hair that seemed particularly annoyed just to be there. Hadriana intercepted him almost immediately, thrusting her hand into his fingers. Then Lord de Carrac, an older man with streaks of gray in his auburn hair. Then Messere Bartiere, a dark-skinned man wearing golden rings on his fingers.

     Fenris looked away from the steady stream of arrivals. None of the guests seemed to notice—or, at least, weren’t bothered by—the presence of the numerous guards that stood vigilant all over the hall. There were more out in the foyer, and a skeleton crew in the parts of the estate where the guests were forbidden to visit. No templar dared to show themselves. Fenris had seen them before, in silver breastplates with the Sword of Mercy pointed down to their navels. They were hard to miss.

     Orana dared to stop beside him for a moment, rearranging the bouquet on a nearby table. “They’re making libum in the kitchen,” she whispered giddily. “Do you think there will be any left over for us?”

     Fenris felt his stomach growl at the thought of the small, creamy cakes cooling on the kitchen counter, sticky with honey. He hadn’t been allowed to eat all day. “I don’t know.” His eyes lingered on the violent red shade of her left cheek, blended in with her rouge. It would bruise tomorrow.

     “Lady Thomasse Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, victor over the Qunari!”

     Fenris snapped out of his thoughts and looked back to the entrance. The Champion of Kirkwall was a pretty woman that was as tall and broad-shouldered as the marshal himself. She wore men’s clothing, a velvet ensemble in deep red, and tied her black hair loosely at the back of her neck. And she wasn’t alone: the marshal announced a beardless dwarf with a red scarf tied around his throat, a Rivaini woman wearing a burgundy dress and a lot of gold, and…a dog.

     “Is that her? Is that the Champion?” Orana whispered, trying to peer over the crowd. “Mistress was talking about her.”

     They were not the only ones that took notice of her arrival, and a sudden hush had fallen over the hall. Fenris spied Hadriana’s head whip around in their direction at the whisper. Her blue eyes narrowed coldly at Orana.

     “You’re supposed to be serving,” Fenris muttered. “So go. Serve.”

     “I’ll save you one, if I can,” Orana whispered before she slipped out of the hall. She seemed completely unaware that Hadriana watched her exit with a scowl before turning her attention back to the seneschal.

     Fenris had to take his eyes off Hadriana when Danarius moved to intercept the Champion. He watched as his master introduced himself to her, taking one of her hands in his own and placing a kiss on the back of her fingers. The beardless dwarf—the marshal had introduced him as Messere Tethras of the Merchant’s Guild—said something complimentary and gestured vaguely at the hall.

     Danarius continued to speak to them as he raised one hand and beckoned with two fingers. Fenris pulled himself away from the wall and approached, carefully weaving through the assembled guests. The pain between his legs had settled into a dull ache that he felt deep in his leg muscles with every step. But the guests more or less jumped out of his way when they noticed him. Comtesse de Launcet gave an audible gasp at the sight of him.

     The Champion and her companions looked at him with surprise. Her expression flickered with surprise, then went studiously blank. The Rivaini woman—Captain Isabela of the Siren’s Call, as the marshal had introduced her—was not as quick, raising her eyebrows in astonishment.

     “Holy shit,” Tethras murmured.

     Fenris halted behind his master and offered his guests a stiff bow. He lowered his gaze—spying a dagger in Captain Isabela’s boot—and found himself looking down at the hound, who didn’t quite seem to know what to make of him.

     “My bodyguard,” Danarius said by way of explanation. “My Tevinter is a beautiful and unmatched place, but like so many beautiful things, it is also very dangerous.”

     “Hey, do you see that, Hawke?” Tethras questioned, gesturing towards Fenris. “Those markings are lyrium.”

     “He must be worth a fortune,” Isabela breathed.

     “My little wolf is priceless to me,” Danarius responded with a chuckle. A muscle twitched in the corner of the captain’s jaw, but he appeared not to notice. “But you are correct. There is no small amount of lyrium embedded in his flesh.”

     “This is ‘no small amount of lyrium’ like the Diamond Quarter is a ‘nice neighborhood’,” Tethras responded. “But somehow you managed to put it under his skin without turning either of you into a drooling cabbage.”

     “Impressive, isn’t it?” Danarius regarded Fenris briefly, as if he were a particularly valuable piece of artwork. He turned back to his guests with a polite smile. “But you must understand that my research is highly sought after. My secrets are known only to myself and my apprentice.”

     “Whom my charming master has failed to properly introduce,” Hadriana spoke as she approached from behind, causing Fenris to start. She ignored him as she looked over the woman in front of her. “The Champion of Kirkwall. We’ve heard tales of your victory over the Arishok in Tevinter.”

     “Oh?” Lady Hawke smiled thinly at her. “I can only imagine the Magisterium was broken-hearted to hear of the Arishok’s sudden death. You must have been missing him for the past three years.”

     “There have been some rumblings of jealousy among my peers,” Danarius told her with a chuckle. “To have a Southern apostate hand the Qunari its largest defeat in years has left some feeling rather sore.”

     “But not you, Magister?”

     “No, not at all. Such a victory should be celebrated while it lasts, before the Qunari elevate a new Arishok and simply move on as if this never happened.”

     Lady Hawke fixed Fenris with a pointed stare—no, not him. His collar. “Is that why you’ve collared this poor man? In celebration?”

     Danarius glanced at the collar. “My own attempts at subversion. The Qunari would have all of us leashed and collared, as they do to their own mages. A barbaric practice, don’t you agree?”

     “I do.” Lady Hawke eyed Fenris. “But at least you didn’t sew up his mouth or cut out his tongue. How considerate of you.”

     Fenris felt his mind retreat to earlier that morning. The hand on his throat. His elbow slipping on the dried blood. If you make a sound, even a whimper. He suddenly felt like he was very far away from his body.

     “Ah, the wine has arrived.”

     Fenris blinked several times. He didn’t catch who was speaking. Orana approached them with a silver tray bearing a half-dozen flutes of wine, a red so deep that it was nearly black in the light. Hadriana’s expression hardened at the sight of her, and for the first time, she saw it.

     Orana first looked confused, then went pale under her rouge. Her fingers started to tremble violently as she plucked a glass off the tray and offered it first to Hadriana. It was what any slave in Tevinter was supposed to do.

     “Not me, you stupid girl,” Hadriana hissed at her. “Give it to the Champion.”

     “Uh, yes, o-of course, sorry, Mistress.” Orana blinked back tears as she tried to hand the wine to Lady Hawke—but she bumped the glass into the Champion’s hand as she reached out for it. She reacted with shock, immediately drawing her hand back to herself, and dropped the glass. It fell to the floor and smashed onto the floor, sending shards of glass in every direction and splattering their shoes with wine. “Oh, Maker, I’m so stupid—please forgive me—”

     “It’s fine,” Lady Hawke tried to say, but her voice was drowned out by the litany of apologies.

     “Useless!” Hadriana spat at her, enraged. “Clean it up!”

     Orana dropped to her knees in a panic and frantically scooped up the glass with her bare hands.

     “Not with your hands,” Hadriana growled. “Go fetch a rag.”

     “Alright, that’s enough,” Lady Hawke intervened as she thrust out an arm between Hadriana and Orana. Orana stood up slowly, looking both confused and uncertain. One of her fingers was bleeding. Lady Hawke pinned Hadriana with a furious look. “You’ve terrified this poor girl enough.”

     Fenris looked at Orana as Orana looked back at him. Neither of them knew how to react.

     “Forgive my apprentice,” Danarius said smoothly, his eyes lingering on the blood welling up on the pad of Orana’s forefinger. He raised his gaze to the Champion and offered her a polite smile. “She forgets that we are in the Free Marches. You must forgive her.”

     Lady Hawke blinked at him, and something strange happened to her features. “Of course,” she said in a dreamy, confused voice. Her dog lowered his head and growled at something, flattening his ears against his skull.

     Fenris felt the magic in the air. The spell moved invisibly, but he felt it on his skin, making his scars throb.

     “Pushing that excuse a little far, don’t you think?” Tethras asked skeptically. “You say that like she forgot to pack heavier clothes for the climate, Magister. Your servant deserves to see a healer, at the very least.”

     “Perhaps, but the wine she so carelessly spilled all over your feet was a very expensive bottle,” Danarius responded smoothly. “In Tevinter, we value discipline. She would be hauled off and whipped. But I would like to hear the Champion’s thoughts on the matter.”

     Lady Hawke shot him an alarmed look. An odd, strangled noise escaped her throat.

     “Shit!” Isabela swore as she flicked out the dagger from her boot and—before anyone could react—thrust it straight into the Champion’s thigh. Everyone around her fell back in shock. “Dammit, Hawke!”

     Lady Hawke doubled over and ripped the dagger from her leg, gritting out a grunt between clenched jaws. Her face flushed red with pain, but she straightened upright, wielding the bloody dagger in one hand. Blood blossomed around the tear in her left leg. “Thank you, Isabela, but we’re going to have a talk about your methods when this is all over,” she muttered. “Magister! Blood magic? Really?”

     Danarius fell back a step in shock, almost bumping into Fenris. “The Champion has a weapon!” he exclaimed, throwing a look over his shoulder at the nobles behind them. “Fenris, defend me!”

     Fenris had enough time to loosen the greatsword from his back before Lady Hawke unleashed an ice spell that slammed outward in both directions. His lyrium brands flared to life, bathing in him a violent blue-white light, and the spell passed through him harmlessly. It solidified on the northern and southern sides of the hall, becoming waist-high spikes of ice that forced the nobles and the marshal back. The nobles retreated in shock, and the minstrels abruptly stopped playing.

     “Andraste’s blood, he glows,” Lady Hawke exclaimed, looking directly at Fenris.

     A bolt flew past her head and lodged into the papered wall fifteen paces behind her. Orana squeaked and covered her head, trying to crawl away, but she was trapped in the ice with them. The guards lined up behind the spiked wall of ice, crossbows at the ready.

     Fenris pushed forward, placing himself between Lady Hawke and his master. The lyrium glowed violently, shining off his armor, and the chains clinked together with his steps. “Get out,” he growled.

     “No, kill them!” Danarius demanded. “Kill them all!”

Chapter Text

Chaos exploded all at once.

     Fenris lunged forward with the greatsword in his hands, chains rattling around his chest, striking in an arc in front of him. Lady Hawke ducked backward, that dagger still held tightly in one hand. He followed through with several more steps, feeding one strike into the next—until he saw the surprise that chased across her face when the heel of her boot knocked against the spiked ice wall. Trapped by her own making. Fenris pulled the next arcing strike into a thrust. His aim was true, he was going to kill her—

     Lady Hawke abruptly dropped to the floor at the same time that she released a solid blast of magic. His lyrium markings flared to life, bathing him in white-blue light, but his sword was untouched. Her magic crashed into his sword from underneath, jerking the blade straight up, wrenching his wrist back—

     Fenris staggered backward and realized, too late, that she’d thrust one foot out and caught him behind the ankle. He stumbled over her and nearly fell, catching himself on the floor and springing back onto his feet. Loose strands of his white hair fell over his face. He flushed with embarrassment. No mage had ever managed to best him like that.

     Lady Hawke laughed as she pushed herself to her feet. She held out the dagger in front of her. Her body hummed with magic, screaming danger in his mind.

     The rest of the hall was enveloped in a storm of chaos, but Fenris barely noticed. Several people were screaming and sobbing in terror. At least two more were shouting in outrage. The hound had hurtled itself over the ice and fell on the guards like a terror. Danarius was enraged. His voice filled Fenris’s skull with a litany of kill her, kill her now. A bolt flew past his arm and collided with the ice wall, breaking off a chunk of magical ice and clattering to the floor. Even Lady Hawke barely reacted.

     Fenris lunged forward again with the greatsword. Lady Hawke thrust out the dagger a second before contact—and a barrier sprung up around her, causing his blade to bounce off the impact, sending vibrations traveling up his bones. He gripped the sword with both hands and forced it back down. She held his gaze from the other side of the barrier, the light shining on her pretty features, a bead of sweat trickling down her brow. Her mouth quirked up in a grin. She was enjoying this.

     Something exploded to his right—he looked almost out of reflex, witnessing Hadriana as she hurled fireballs at Tethras, screaming in rage, while Tethras seized Orana by the arm and tried to force her over the spiked ice wall—and in the second that he took his eyes off Lady Hawke, the barrier dropped.

     Fenris put too much pressure on the greatsword. He stumbled forward with a grunt of surprise—

     A pulse of violent, white-blue light burst outward from Fenris. It surprised him as much as it surprised Lady Hawke. She was knocked backward into her own wall of ice. He hadn’t even realized she was preparing another spell until he felt the magic vanish from the palm of her hand.

     Something moved to his right—

     Fenris twisted at the waist, bringing up the greatsword in time to parry a set of daggers. Isabela swore as both her daggers bounced off the flat of his blade, sparking on contact, then lashed out again underneath him. He dropped the blade and caught her there, too. She was quick, though, and it took all of his concentration just to read where she was going next, and venhedis, how did she even have two daggers? He only counted one before, and that one was—

     The lyrium flared brightly again. Fenris felt the arcane bolt tear through him—but not into him. For a moment, he wasn’t there, he was somewhere else he didn’t recognize, and he felt a shudder ripple through him as if someone had just walked over his grave. Then he was solid again. And Isabela was staring at him in disbelief.

     “What is that?!” Isabela exclaimed.

     “I don’t know,” Lady Hawke called from behind him. “But he can’t control it!”

     Fenris realized with a sudden start that he had somehow let himself be surrounded: Lady Hawke behind him, brimming with magic; and Isabela in front of him, wielding two daggers she’d got from…somewhere. Sloppy.

     “Get in there, you idiot!” Danarius snarled, and for a split-second, Fenris thought he was talking to him—

     It was a guard. Danarius was screaming at a guard. Fenris took his eyes off Isabela for a split-second to witness the guard jerkily walking towards the spiked ice wall, his entire body suffused in magic.

     “Hawke!” Tethras bellowed in warning. “Take cover!”

     Then the spell went off.

     Fenris’s lyrium markings didn’t activate. The spell hit him with full force, knocking him clear off his feet and hurling him back into the northern wall of ice. The last thing he felt was the back of his head hitting the ice. Then everything went black.

***

An explosion shook the ground.

     Then another, and another, and another.

     Fenris stirred to consciousness. His skin ached beneath the fierce glow of his lyrium markings, responding to the magic around him even as he laid unconscious on the floor. The battle was still ongoing. Hadriana stood at the epicenter of a firestorm, her black hair flying out around her, fire raining down around her in every direction. Patches of the floor smoked and peeled up at her feet.

     The nobility had retreated against the wall. Lords shielded ladies. One of the merchants was hidden under the tables. There was no sign anywhere of Orana.

     Fenris pulled himself upright and groped around for his greatsword. It had fallen on the floor not too far from where he’d landed. A severed arm had landed atop the blade, and the floor was colored with blood. Was it the guard’s arm, the one that had been turned into a walking bomb? Or was it some other guard’s arm, severed while he was unconscious?

     Danarius suddenly cried out in pain. He doubled over, clutching his shoulder, a bolt protruding from between his fingers. His blood was imperceptible against his finery as it blossomed around the bolt. Tethras had somehow managed to get his hands on one of the guard’s crossbows. If the man wasn’t dead, Danarius would kill him later.

     Fenris dragged himself to his feet, the greatsword scraping across the floor. His skull throbbed and his neck felt damp. He touched the back of his head, and his gauntlet came away shiny with his blood. Kaffas.

     Danarius lashed out with magic that thrust everyone away from him. His steel-gray eyes met Fenris. He looked dangerous, his gray hair plastered to his forehead, his robes shiny with blood. “My wolf!” he called out. “Come to me!”

     Fenris was compelled to his side. He heaved his greatsword onto his shoulder and sprinted across the floor, his lyrium markings glowing as it reacted to all the magic in the air—

     Lady Hawke whipped around and thrust out a blast of solid magic. Danarius was hurtled back into a surviving portion of her spiked ice wall. Fenris felt his body shift, glowing violently, the spell passing through him, but he barely registered the way that it slid through his body. He fell upon Lady Hawke as he became himself again, solid again, slinging the greatsword from his shoulder in a downward arc—

     Another blast of magic was unleashed from her feet. It slammed through Fenris, causing his lyrium to flare brightly, and his body to shift—

     Fenris fell through Lady Hawke entirely and landed on the other side. A sense of panic curled in his gut as he phased through her, his body flitting through her like a ghost. He landed on his feet, between Danarius and Lady Hawke, and whipped around—

     Her dagger struck out as he turned, slashing him behind the knee—

     Fenris swore as he slumped to the ground. He almost dropped the greatsword as he fell to his noninjured leg. His green eyes fixed with her with a disbelieving look. She had intentionally triggered his lyrium markings and manipulated them so she could get behind him. He suddenly realized, with sharp clarity, how it was that a Southern apostate managed to best the Arishok.

     “Hold still,” Danarius said from behind him.

     Fenris’s entire body froze. “M-Master?” was all he managed to get out before the magic dove into his blood. The spell crawled through his veins and chased through his entire body. He was suddenly lost to the unbearable sensation of his blood being forced to his skin. His heart was beating hard against his chest—no, in his neck, in his ears—and the hall suddenly darkened dangerously—

     “Stop it!” Lady Hawke shouted from somewhere far away. “You’re going to kill him!”

     Fenris was drowning in the beating of his heart. It was all he could hear. All that he could feel. He became aware of the greatsword falling from his grip, of the floor rising up to meet him—

     Everything went black.

***

A dog was barking furiously. Someone else was screaming. Stomping on the ground. Someone was dancing around. Sound of metal ripping through fabric. His skin ached with the feel of all the magic in the air. Something else exploded.

     Danarius needed him.

***

“I…need…”

     Fenris blearily opened his eyes. He was staring up at the ceiling, which seemed a lot farther away than it ever had before. Someone’s fingers gripped the chain of his collar and hauled it up and over his shoulder. It was Danarius.

     Danarius had lost a lot of color. He was down on his hands and knees, one fist gripped around his chains, sweat beaded on his forehead. “Just a little more,” he grunted.

     Fenris couldn’t immediately remember where they were. He was back in the master bedchamber. No, he was out in the hall. There were guests. Intruders.

     A leather boot came down on Danarius’s hand. His master crumpled in pain, writhing on the floor. “You’ve drained him nearly to the point of death.” Lady Hawke. She sounded enraged. “You’ve done enough, Magister.”

     Fenris found himself looking up at her face, shining with sweat, strands of her black hair sticking to her forehead. She was going to kill his master. He couldn’t move.

     “The Magisterium will hear of this,” Danarius grunted out. He sounded exhausted. Fenris had never heard him sound exhausted.

     The last thing Fenris heard before he went under again was Lady Hawke, her voice as hard and cold as steel: “Good.”

***

“No! Don’t! Please, don’t hurt him!”

     Fenris resurfaced again. It was so hard to open his eyes. His head throbbed, the back of his knee stung, and the rest of his body was was a collection aches and pains. He became aware that someone had planted their hand on the center of his bare chest, rattling the chains. His hair had fallen completely loose and fell over his face. He felt cold and far away from his body.

     “He was just doing what Master told him to do!” Orana. It was Orana. She sounded nearly hysterical, her words choked with sobs. He felt the roughspun cloth of her skirt as it fell over his stomach, blooming out from where she’d fallen on the floor. “Please don’t—don’t hurt him!”

     “I’m not going to hurt him, but he’s bleeding to death, if we don’t—”

     “Stay back! Leave us alone! We were fine until you came here! Why did you have to come here?!”

     Fenris felt his body tense. His eyes flew open. His master needed him. “Master?” Where was Danarius? He tried to push himself off the ground, but it was so hard just to sit up—

     “Don’t move!” Orana threw herself on him, almost knocking him back onto the floor. She pressed her wet face against his chest. “They killed Mistress! They’re going to kill us!”

     Fenris wasn’t fully aware of his arm wrapping around her shoulders. He held onto her as he tried to orient himself. His head spun, and his body felt so heavy. Someone was moving near him. His skin ached. “Where is Master?”

     “Th-they killed him,” Orana sobbed into his chest.

     “What?” Fenris felt his spine stiffen. He twisted around for signs of Danarius—and there he was, almost close enough to touch, sprawled out on the ground, undignified in all of his finery. “Master! Orana, get off—Master!” he tried to call, but she refused to release him.

     Danarius was dead.

     Fenris had seen enough corpses to know what death looked like. And Danarius, who never looked vulnerable, was slack on the ground with the life stolen from him. His mantle shone with his blood. “No, he can still be saved,” he said in a panic, and in a rush, he drew himself to his feet. Orana more or less fell from him and was left crying on the floor. Fenris staggered forward a step. All the blood rushed to his head, and he collapsed back onto the floor—

     Someone caught him by the shoulders before he hit the floor. Orana? Not Orana. She was crying on the floor behind him.

     “Hold on there.” Lady Hawke spoke from above him. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. Don’t push yourself.”

     Fenris seized the collar of her tunic in his fist, even as he felt himself being dragged back into the dark. “Save him,” he begged. “Save my master. Do something.”

     “I’m not going to do that,” Lady Hawke replied in a gentle tone he didn’t understand.

     Fenris wanted to spit in her face, but he didn’t have the strength. He tried to push himself from the floor again, but the blood fled down from his head, and he swooned. One hand reached out and seized her sleeve. It was the last thing he was aware of before he fell unconscious again.

***

They were outside.

     Fenris stirred, becoming aware that someone was holding him. One arm around his shoulders, the other underneath his knees, making the slash on the back of his knee itch. His head had settled on the swell of her breast, and he was dimly aware of the rapid beating of her heart through her finery. He lacked the strength to open his eyes, but he was immediately aware that they were not alone. It smelled like the ocean and her perfume. It smelled like evening.

     “Maker’s breath, Champion,” an unfamiliar male voice swore from nearby. His swear was accompanied by the sound of metal brushing against metal and the swish of cloth. “Why didn’t you just alert the templars that you suspected blood magic?”

     A templar. That made sense.

     “Come now, Cullen.” As Lady Hawke spoke, her voice vibrated underneath his cheek. He had not been aware that she was strong enough to lift him. Her tone was light and teasing. “When have I ever done that?”

     “The Magisterium will have a shit-fit about this,” another male voice spoke with delight. He produced the same sounds as he shifted his weight: metal on metal, cloth swishing around his legs. Another templar. “I think you actually did good here.”

     “Carver,” the first templar reprimanded sharply. “Templars do not say things like shit-fit.”

     “Uh, sorry, Ser.”

     “Take care of everyone in there for me. They witnessed a lot tonight. Unfortunately, this one needs a healer, and they both need to be somewhere safe tonight.” Lady Hawke glanced over her shoulder before she shifted his weight in her arms. His eyelids fluttered open for a second, catching the sight of lights overhead and a pair of pale faces staring down at him from above their Swords of Mercy. He groaned as his head lolled back onto her chest. She turned away. “And apologize to Bran for me, would you?”

     “I’m not—”

     “Appreciate it, Ser Cullen.” Lady Hawke proceeded down the street, leaving behind his protests. Fenris heard the clinking of his chains against his chest, rattling with her steps, growing colder against his skin in the night air. Talons tapped against the ground; the dog must have been following them. They passed underneath a light, which he could see through his eyelids. His body felt weak. He felt empty inside. Her heart beat harder underneath his cheek. She let out a sharp exhale several minutes later. “You know, your friend is a lot heavier than he looks.”

     She was speaking to someone else. Not him.

     “What is your name?”

     “…Orana.”

     “Orana,” Lady Hawke repeated. “A beautiful name. Do you know his?”

     “Fenris,” Orana answered. Her voice was small, trailing behind them. “His name is Fenris.”

***

The next time Fenris became conscious, he was immediately aware that someone had placed him on a bed. They had placed him on top of the covers, and he realized that the various spikes of his armor were snagging on the delicate cloth underneath him. Dull aches throbbed throughout his body; someone had healed him. His chains pooled on his sternum. Someone sat down on his left, causing the mattress to dip, and picked up his chains.

     Fenris felt his entire body go stiff. Cold panic curled in his stomach.

     “He’s trussed up his slave like he’s some sort of Qunari mage,” an unfamiliar male voice murmured to himself. “This is monstrous, but I don’t even see a lock anywhere on it. So how…?” His voice trailed off in thought. His fingers climbed up the chains, then he sat back in annoyance and gave the chain a light tug.

     Fenris’s eyes snapped opened as he struck out—his gauntlet connected with the curious face bent over him, hurtling the man back over the bed, and sending him sprawling against the wall with a startled cry. He immediately curled up on the floor, clutching his face, strawberry-blond hair falling over his features.

     “Ow! Shit!” he swore, his voice muffled behind his fingers.

     Fenris seized his moment to escape. He launched himself out of bed—but as soon as his feet touched the floor, he felt himself start to swoon. His fingers went into his hair, trying to force the throbbing to subside. Someone had clumsily taped a bandage to the back of his leg. His greatsword was gone.

     “Alright, easy, easy.” The man picked himself up from the floor and leaned against the wall for support. He held one hand out defensively, as if he were trying to make friends with a stray cat. “You don’t like it when I touch the chains. I won’t touch the chains, alright? You’re safe here. Ow.”

     Fenris looked at the door, then back at the man. He hadn’t the faintest idea where he’d been taken. “You!” he snarled as he stormed across the room, seizing the man by the fur-lined collar and nearly dragging him off the floor. His lyrium markings flared dangerously to life. “Where am I?”

     But the man looked at him almost with fascination, despite the blood leaking from his nose. “You do glow,” he breathed in awe, before reconsidering. “Never mind, you’re at the Hawke estate—”

     The door flew open before he could finish speaking and Lady Hawke burst into the room. Her finery was gone, replaced by a maroon robe that reached her knees. “I heard screaming in here, is everything—Fenris!” she shouted as she took in the scene. “Release him!”

     Fenris considered plunging his fist into his chest cavity and squeezing his heart until someone gave him better answers. But he dropped the man, who stumbled away from him.

     Lady Hawke looked at him in astonishment. “Maker’s breath, what did he do to you?”

     The man winced but made a dismissive gesture. “He punched me in the face, but I don’t think it was on purpose. I think my nose might be broken. Don’t touch his chains, or he’ll punch you, too, Hawke.”

     Fenris glared at her as his memories resurfaced. He was confused and light-headed, but he vividly recalled begging for his master’s life. I’m not going to do that. Her words were clear in his memory. “You killed my master!” he spat as he stormed across the room. She discreetly put herself between him and the other man, but it didn’t matter. He wanted her. “You let him die! You did nothing to help him!”

     “Maybe you should give us some privacy,” Lady Hawke murmured to her companion.

     “…Are you sure?”

     “Yes. I’ll be fine.”

     He spared her an uncertain glance before departing from the room, closing the door behind him.

     Fenris felt cold fear curl in his stomach as he realized that he was alone with her. His body ached, and his anger abruptly went out. “What do you intend to do with me?” he questioned, trying to suffuse his voice with venom, trying to sound dangerous. “Ransom me back to Tevinter? Do you think my master won’t just come here and—"

     “Your master is dead.”

     Fenris fell silent. He vividly remembered begging her for the life of his master and her quiet, gentle refusal to do anything. Of course he was dead. But the threat had slipped out of him so easily. He suddenly felt sick to his stomach.

     Lady Hawke watched his reaction. “You’re a free man now. He will never hurt you again.”

     Fenris stared at her blankly. “I—I don’t understand.”

     Lady Hawke offered him a sympathetic smile. “Things might not make sense for a while. Your master drained you within an inch of your life to sustain himself. That very nice man whose nose you just broke? He has spent the last hour tending to you with healing magic. But you still need rest.”

     Fenris barely heard her. “My master is dead.”

     Lady Hawke nodded. “He is.”

     Panic—real panic—overtook his mind. Fenris pulled away from her. He paced the length of the room in a blind panic, making fists in his hair. He was alone. In a foreign country. Hundreds of miles away from his home. Without his master. And he couldn’t even begin to think of how he we would get back home.

     “Fenris?” Lady Hawke called. “It’s alright, you’re going to be—”

     “Shut up!” Fenris snarled, whipping around on her so fast that it made him feel dizzy. He stood his ground and glared at her. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Chapter Text

Fenris stared at the woman who had killed his master. He hated her. His body ached all over, despite the clumsy attempts to heal the back of his head and the back of his knee. One tender spot between his legs ached. His master was dead. And his hatred for her, for what she’d done to him, for how she’d stranded him in this unfamiliar city with no way to get back home, was almost blinding. “You killed my master and then you took us here,” he snarled at her. “Why?”

     Lady Hawke was infuriatingly calm. He wanted to provoke her, and she seemed to sense that. She stood to the left of the door in her robes, revealing long, muscular legs. No bandages underneath. Someone had healed the knife-wound on her upper thigh. “He used blood magic on us, Fenris,” she explained. She kept insisting on using his name. “He was a bad person, and I’m not sorry that he’s dead.”

     “Vishante kaffas,” Fenris swore at her. She was lying to him. He had to get back to the estate somehow. Beg to be forgiven. Beg to be taken back to Castellum Tenebris. Danarius had other apprentices and other scions that would take over upon his death. “I have to leave. Where is my sword?”

     “It’s in the armory.” Lady Hawke made no attempt to move. “You are exhausted and have barely recovered from an enormous loss of blood. Fenris, won’t you at least consider resting here for the night?”

     There was a way that she spoke to him with concern. Concern. He suddenly recalled the hard edge of her tone as she stood over his master, down on his knees and on the verge of death. Her voice like the flat blade of a sword. Good. And now she dared to speak to him with this mockery of kindness. He couldn’t understand her.

     “This is supposed to be an offer of hospitality? You kill my master and bring us here?” Fenris glared at her. He was so angry that it made him feel sick to his stomach. “I don’t care. Where is the armory?”

     “It’s at the end of the hall on the right.”

     Fenris hadn’t actually expected an answer from her, and yet…she gave him one. He stared at her suspiciously. But if she was simply going to let him walk out of here, then he was going to do just that. “Don’t stop me,” he barked at her as he stormed out of the room. She made no move to intercept him, and he found himself out in the corridor without resistance.

     Everything about the estate was unfamiliar. The floors were a polished stone material that was the color of coffee, overrun with long rugs that were deeply scarlet and trimmed in gold. Warm lights flickered from chandeliers set overhead. Framed oil portraits displayed the proud busts of people he did not recognize, yet shared similar features with the woman that had just killed his master. Similar noses and chins. Same eye color. Family members. And the repeated imagery of what must have been a family crest: two birds facing each other, tangled at the center with red knotwork, like they couldn’t tear themselves apart.

     Fenris suddenly felt light-headed as he stomped down the corridor. At the end on the right. That was where the armory was, along with his greatsword. There were no guards anywhere to be seen, which struck him as odd. Was she so confident in her magical ability that she didn’t see the need? He reached the end and shoved open the last door on the right.

     Her idea of an armory might as well have been a trophy room. His greatsword was propped against one wall, underneath a set of ogre’s horns mounted on the wall. A pair of massive swords were displayed in a glass case, the make obviously Qunari in origin. Bassrath-kata, he thought they were called. An assortment of mage staves, some battered and some untouched, on display in even, straight lines. And, curiously, on a high shelf, a red scrap of cloth carefully knotted, as one might wear around their neck.

     Did she mean to take his sword as a trophy?

     Fenris seized his greatsword in his hand at the same moment that he heard footsteps behind him. He spun around and realized that Lady Hawke had followed him, and now she stood between him and the exit. Something about that punched him in the gut. She stood between him and the only way out. He was cornered.

     “Fenris,” Lady Hawke said calmly, holding out her hands. She took a step into the room and fully blocked the door. “I only want to help. I understand this must be a lot to take in all at once—”

     Fenris fell back a step and felt his heel hit the wall behind him. It made him jump—and it also made his lyrium flare brightly, and that made her freeze and suck in a breath. “Leave me,” he hissed at her, brandishing his sword. “Just—just leave.”

     “I’m not going to hurt you—”

     “But you put my sword in your trophy room. And you think you can corner me in here? Just because you’ve beaten me once?”

     Lady Hawke looked around the room as if she’d never noticed it before. “It’s actually supposed to be an armory,” she confessed in an almost conversational tone. Like they were two friends talking about how the development of her estate was going. “But I can see how you might think that.”

     Fenris glared at her. He suddenly felt dizzy and light-headed. Adrenaline chased through his blood, but somehow, that just made him feel worse. “Just—step aside, and I won’t run you through,” he warned her.

     Lady Hawke threw up her hands. “Fenris, I only want—”

     Fenris wasn’t even sure what it was the lyrium reacted to. But it flared brightly at the same moment that she raised her hands, and a pulse was thrust out in every direction, slamming into the walls. It shook the room all around him—

     Lady Hawke reacted to something behind him—at the same moment that he realized the set of horns had been knocked loose from the wall behind him. The frame ripped away from the wall and toppled down on top of him—

     A barrier sprang up around him. Fenris threw up his greatsword in a feeble attempt to defend himself, but it was the barrier that saved his life. He was suddenly caged in a violent white light. The horns crashed into the barrier from the top and slid around its curve, toppling back into the wall again and ripping the paper on the way down to the floor. It landed with another thud! that shook the whole floor.

     Fenris stared at it without breathing as the barrier came down. He thought he was going to be sick.

     Lady Hawke let out an exhale. “Maker’s breath, are you alright—”

     Fenris felt his stomach lurch. He bent over all at once as his stomach heaved, and the thin contents of his stomach splattered onto the shiny, polished floor. It was agony ripping through him. Nothing but sinewy strands of saliva and bile came out, but his stomach heaved again and again. He collapsed onto his knees, and the blade scraped against the floor as it fell down with him.

     “Anders! Anders!” Lady Hawke shouted as she dashed across the room, but someone was already storming down the corridor towards them. She dropped onto the floor beside him and placed one hand on his back—his muscles all jumped at the contact. “It’s alright, it’s alright,” she whispered to him in a soothing voice.

     It was the healer that appeared in the doorway with an alarmed expression. “Andraste’s mercy, Hawke, what happened in here?” he questioned, but he abandoned the question when Fenris heaved again.

     There was nothing coming out. Now it was just ragged convulsions scraping his throat raw. Fenris clung to his sword until it passed, acutely aware that he was cornered by two mages. He felt winded when his stomach finally settled, and all he could do was prop his greatsword upright and slump against it for support. His skull ached. He was so tired.

     “Hawke, this is all just bile and spit,” the healer murmured as he pulled himself from the floor. “I think we need to get our patient back to his room. And we need to get something in his stomach.”

     “I can carry him. I’ve done it before.”

     “Oh, good. Justice regularly forgets that he’s stuck with my muscles.”

     Fenris stared down at the floor at their feet, breathing hard. His mouth tasted bitter and his white hair had fallen into his eyes. He felt hollowed out. Like someone had reached down his throat and scooped out all of his innards. Even though all he’d managed to produce was a sickly-looking slick puddle of bile. The edge touched the rug and soaked into the fabric. He would be beaten for this later.

     Lady Hawke gently moved one hand from his back to his shoulder. “Can you stand? Or do you want me to carry you?” she asked softly. “You can keep the sword if it makes you feel better, as long as you promise not to hurt anyone here with it.”

     Fenris looked at her through the part in his hair. “I don’t understand.”

     Lady Hawke smiled at him. “I just can’t have you severing my healer’s head from his shoulders, alright? But you can keep it if you promise not to hurt anyone.”

     Fenris tightened the grip around his greatsword, but it was clear that she expected him to say something. He swallowed the acrid taste down his throat. “I promise,” he croaked out, defeated.

***

Fenris stubbornly retreated to the bedchamber on his feet, refusing the indignity of being carried for a second time. But Lady Hawke was true to her word and permitted him to carry his greatsword back with him, which he laid against the wall near the bed, so he could reach for it at a moment’s notice. He found himself sitting on the bed again, slumped over with his heels on the frame and his elbows on his knees. His body ached.

     For the moment, he was alone.

     Fenris studied the bedchamber for the first time that evening. The room was spacious and clean but had clearly rarely been used. It struck him as ironic that he was being held captive in a guest’s room. A set of windows in one wall overlooked the street down below. It was a straight drop down to the street. He could break the glass but might break his ankles upon landing the stone. It appeared that there was very little for him to hold onto if he climbed out of the window.

     A knock came at the door, making him jump.

     “Fenris?”

     It was Lady Hawke.

     Fenris stared at the door blankly, but nothing happened. He realized that she was going to make him open the door for her. It baffled him that she played these sorts of games with him. He crawled out of the bed and crossed the room, tugging open the door and greeting her with a surly look.

     Lady Hawke offered him a bowl of stew, steam wafting from its glistening surface, making his mouth water. “Supper,” she offered. “Anders suspects that it has been some time since you’ve eaten anything.”

     Fenris recalled that he hadn’t eaten anything at all since Orana shoved some food into his hands yesterday. But it was the middle of the night now, with the party some hours behind him. So the day before yesterday. His stomach growled at the scent of the food. He hesitantly accepted the bowl and inspected the contents. It resembled leftovers. Slaves were often fed leftovers once everyone else had finished dining. That was comforting somehow.

     Lady Hawke watched him. “I’ll give you some privacy,” she offered. “Do you mind if Anders comes and checks on you in an hour?”

     Fenris looked up at her and considered what she might’ve wanted from him. She expected him to agree, didn’t she? He was her captive. There was nowhere for him to go. She had seen to that when she killed his master. “Let him come,” he muttered.

     Lady Hawke inhaled deeply and nodded. “Alright, then.” She didn’t seem to quite know what to do with his response. “Enjoy your supper.” Then she turned and left.

     Fenris shut himself in the room and returned to the bed with his bowl of stew. He was distrusting of their intentions, but he was also ravenous. His first bite was a small one, searching on his tongue for conspicuous flavors that might’ve indicated poison. All he tasted was shredded pieces of lamb, various root vegetables that he couldn’t identify, and soft green peas floating in an ale broth.

     It was perhaps the most delicious thing he could remember eating.

     Fenris drained the bowl of its entire contents, and once it had settled in his aching stomach, he found himself feeling full and sleepy. His instincts chafed at the idea of sleeping in this unfamiliar mansion. He seized his greatsword and propped it against the side of the bed, between his legs, determined to stay awake. As soon as the sun rose, he was going back to his master’s estate.

***

Fenris slowly became aware of the warmth that had settled on the lower part of his face and his neck. He realized with an abrupt start that he had somehow managed to sleep through the entire night. It was well past sunrise, with slivers of pale sunshine peering through the cracks in the curtains, one having traversed up his body until it reached his face.

     Danarius was going to be furious with him when he—

     Fenris was halfway out of bed when he remembered that Danarius was dead. He had been killed by one of his guests. The panic that had suffused his limbs abruptly vanished and left him feeling tired. He sagged back down onto the bed without purpose.

     His memory was completely blank between finishing the stew and waking up in the morning. Had there been some sort of sleeping draught in the food? Did they do that in the South?

     Fenris had no idea. He stared down at his feet and realized that, somehow, he’d dropped his greatsword at some point during the night. It had slumped against the wall and dug its tip into the rug underneath the bed, tugging out several fibers. He had been left in his armor, and the spikes in his armor had torn a fresh hole in the covers while he’d slept. Or perhaps that was from the first time he was unconscious. He was having a hard time remembering.

     The healer was supposed to come back.

     Fenris remembered that with a start that made his spine stiffen. He mentally cataloged the aches and pains that plagued his body, but he sensed no new ones. No one had attempted to remove his armor. Nothing had been done to him in his sleep. At least as far as he could tell.

     But now what?

     Fenris looked at the door. He should go back to his master’s estate and beg his way back into the favor of his heir. Perhaps he could earn their forgiveness if he could find his way back to Castellum Tenebris. And he should find Orana. She would want to come with him to Tevinter.

     Hefting the sword onto his shoulder, Fenris pulled himself off the bed and padded out of the room. He noticed that someone had come into this room overnight and removed the empty bowl. His body ached no more than it had last night. That was something.

     Fenris opened the door and found himself face-to-face with Lady Hawke. She widened her eyes at the sight of him, her gaze briefly flicking up to the greatsword balanced on his right shoulder. Her black hair was drawn into an untidy knot at the back of her head, loose black strands falling around her face. She had the slightly mussed, bare-faced appearance of a woman who had just pulled herself out of bed. He noticed the cup of black tea in her hands.

     Lady Hawke was slightly taller than him. Fenris wasn’t sure why he cared to notice.

     “I thought you might want some tea,” Lady Hawke spoke first, holding out the teacup as an offering. It was still hot. “You had a long night last night.”

     Fenris stepped out into the corridor and slammed the door shut behind him. He felt stronger and more himself, despite how sore his body was. “I’m going back to my master’s estate,” he said as he marched around her. “Where is Orana? She will want to come with me.”

     “Orana is downstairs, having some tea in the kitchen,” Lady Hawke answered. “But do you know where Danarius’s estate is?”

     Fenris stopped. He did not. His memory of how he got here was…blank. And when he tried to think about it, the only detail that rose to prominence was the sensation of her heart beating underneath his cheek. It made his face flush with warmth. “Show me,” he growled.

     “Alright, I will,” Lady Hawke agreed breezily. “But not in my nightclothes.”

***

The morning was crisp and bright, a cool gray sky that matched the stalwart faces of the estates all around them. The Garden looked different in the daylight. Lush, green vines crawled all over the stone walls. Thick drapes of different colors hung behind the windows. City guards were an undeniable presence out on the street, their orange regalia vibrant against the stonework pressing in on them from all sides.

     Fenris stalked after Lady Hawke with Orana at his heels. His collar, and the distinct rattling of his chains, drew concerned looks from the civilians that meandered down the streets. They were all the same sort that had shown up to the Summerday party in velvet and silk. He didn’t care if they were disturbed by his presence. All he wanted was to go home.

     Lady Hawke wore her black hair loose and dressed in men’s clothing, a burgundy shirt and black trousers. She didn’t look like a mage. She looked like a noblewoman. Fenris had thought mages were treated differently in the South. His master had spoken disdainfully of the Southern Circles. Perhaps he had been mistaken.

     They walked in silence for some minutes, until Lady Hawke came to a stop in front of one such estate. It could have been mistaken for the estate of any other minor lord or noble in this wretched city, but for the heraldry of House Danarius above the entrance. Fenris and Orana stopped and looked at the estate. He suddenly felt a wave of anxiety wash through him. No one had cleared away the decorations from the previous night, and the windows were still dark despite the hour.

     The estate had been abandoned.

Chapter Text

Fenris stared at the darkened estate without breathing. He had never considered that it might be abandoned. His master’s servants must have fled the violence—unsurprising, they were local hires and lacking loyalty—but it appeared that everyone else fled as well. He marched up to the entrance, chains rattling around his neck, and attempted to shove open the door. It was locked from the other side.

     “Fenris!” Lady Hawke called from behind him as she hurried after him. “I don’t think you should—”

     The lyrium in his skin flared brightly. Fenris was suddenly acutely aware that he was somewhere else, and on impulse, he stepped through the door. It subsided on the other side of the door, and Fenris found himself solidly inside the foyer of his master’s estate.

     “Fenris!” Lady Hawke’s voice was muffled through the door, but the sharp three knocks of her fist rang clear. “Fenris, please open the door!”

     Fenris ignored her. He sucked in a breath as he crossed the foyer. Only the night before, the estate had been alive with shuffling bodies preparing for the party, but now it was utterly deserted. None of the lights that he could see had been left on. One visible fire had burned out, leaving the hearth cold and black. He stopped at the entrance to the hall where the violence had broken out. Someone had covered the bodies with white blankets. His gaze settled on the one that belonged to Danarius, a bright red scrap of his finery peeking out from underneath the blanket. Somewhere else in here was Hadriana. And all the guards that Danarius had hired.

     Everyone else had abandoned the estate.

     Fenris turned away from the threshold as panic curled in the pit of his stomach. He was alone in this strange city with no means of contacting his master’s House. Danarius had never been in distress before, but what would he have done if he were stranded in a strange city? Send a letter? That was not an option for him. If they were in Tevinter…

     If they were in Tevinter, then Lady Hawke would own him. It had happened before. Magisters killing other magisters and then taking their favorite slaves. Sometimes they were even paraded around like battle trophies.

     But they weren’t in Tevinter.

     Fenris returned to the front door. He heard voices through the heavy wood as he disbarred his side of the door: Lady Hawke was no longer alone, and he thought he recognized the other voice as belonging to Tethras. Their voices fell quiet as they heard his movements. He pushed open the door and looked at the assembled group at the threshold. It had grown by two, not one: in addition to Tethras, they were also joined by a red-haired woman wearing the armor of the city guard.

     “Maker’s mercy,” the guardswoman swore at the sight of him. She recovered from her shock with an agitated sigh, as though his appearance vexed her more than it disturbed her. “Well, now I understand what Magistrate Vanard was complaining about.”

     But Lady Hawke looked at him with a relief that he couldn’t understand. “You scared me, running off like that!” she breathed. “Did you…find what you were looking for?”

     Fenris looked past her at Orana, who stood behind them, as slaves were supposed to, and watched him with worried green eyes. Her rouge had been wiped off or worn off at some point overnight. The bruise across her cheekbone was swollen and beginning to purple. “I’m sorry,” he said, and her shoulders slumped.

     “Hawke,” the guardswoman began sharply. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on out here, but you can’t have him out and about in Hightown with that—that collar. Magistrate Vanard won’t be the only one to come to my office with complaints by the end of the day. Could you at least do me a favor and make him get rid of that thing?”

     Lady Hawke scowled at her. “I can’t make him do anything. He’s a free man now.”

     The guardswoman raised her chin. “Then ask him. Nicely. I don’t care. But his appearance is causing a disturbance.”

     Fenris discreetly removed himself from their circle as the conversation—or argument—took over. No one appeared to take immediate notice. Slaves were not normally permitted to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with their betters, and their proximity to him made him uncomfortable. But Lady Hawke had said, several times now, that he was a free man. He wasn’t sure what that meant. He didn’t feel free; he felt abandoned. Or lost.

     Orana quickly drew next to his side. She twisted her hands together nervously. “What do we do now?” she whispered to him with palpable anxiety.

     Fenris looked over his shoulder at the darkened estate. “I—I don’t know,” he whispered back. “I suppose we’re…free.”

     Orana covered her mouth with her hands. Her skin blanched under the bruise, angry and red and turning purple. “Free to do what?” she moaned between her fingers. “I don’t know anything about this city, except—except that it has templars. Mistress said there were a lot of templars here.” She suddenly seized him by the vambrace; he growled at the pain that flared up in his skin but didn’t remove her hand. “The templars—they use lyrium here.”

     “They use what?”

     “Lyrium!”

     “Why would they do that? It’s poisonous.”

     “I—I don’t know, but Mistress brought me with her when she met with one of them,” Orana whispered, lowering her voice even more. Both of her hands were on his vambrace now, as if he might be stolen out from under her grasp while they were still speaking. “He was using the coin she was paying him to buy more lyrium. He was addicted to it. What if the templars here try to steal you? What if they try to take the lyrium out of your skin?”

     “If it makes you feel any better,” Tethras spoke up, causing both of the elves to jump apart in shock. “A templar would have to be pretty desperate to drink the lyrium out of your skin. And the templars care a lot more about apostates than they do about former slaves.”

     “What do you want, dwarf?” Fenris questioned, his alarm making him bold.

     “We haven’t had an official introduction, have we?” Tethras pointedly ignored his blunt tone and swept a short bow. “Varric Tethras, famed author, frequent Hanged Man patron, and deshyr of Kirkwall to the Merchants’ Guild.”

     A deshyr? Fenris knew the title.

     “Oh, f-forgive us, my lord.” Orana responded first with a deep curtsy, dropping her eyes to the ground. Fenris bowed with her, the links of his chains clinking together as he bent forward. “We hadn’t realized we were in the presence of someone so—”

     But the dwarven man threw up his hands as if physically repulsed. “Maker, no!” he exclaimed, exasperated. “Varric is fine. None of this my lord shit, alright?”

     Orana and Fenris straightened upright again, and she cast him a wary glance before responding. “Are you sure?”

     “Yes, I’m sure.” Varric snorted. “Believe me, it’s hardly a dignified position to be in, considering recent circumstances. But never mind that. Hawke told me that you’re temporarily residing at her estate. You’re both free now. Have you considered at all where you would want to go?”

     “I don’t know how to get us back to Tevinter,” Fenris said.

     “Is that your only option? Tevinter?” Varric questioned, and it was becoming rapidly clear that he was angling toward something. “Because recent circumstances have made clear that Hawke is in more of a need of a personal guard than she thinks. And other recent circumstances have left her in dire need of some help. What exactly did you do for Danarius?”

     “I…belonged to him,” Fenris answered slowly. He didn’t understand the question. “Orana belongs to his apprentice, Hadriana.”

     “But you…were his bodyguard? You were there to protect him?”

     “Yes.”

     “It might surprise you to know this, but Hawke has a long list of people that want her dead. She can’t even step foot in a Summerday party without getting attacked by blood magic.” Varric chuckled at his joke, but the elves were silent. “Kirkwall is a dangerous place, and it is currently suffering a…problem. A magical problem. A weird, magical shit problem. And a bodyguard with your unique talents would be invaluable, because, honestly, it’s probably just going to get worse from here.”

     Fenris glanced over at Lady Hawke, who was still deep in conversation with the frustrated guardswoman. He heard the words “knight-commander” and “magister” come out of the guardswoman’s mouth. Lady Hawke briefly looked back at him, and her eyes met his. He quickly looked away again, but it was clear that she knew another conversation was taking place but saw no need to involve herself.

     “What would she want from me?” Fenris asked, though there was little point to the question. She killed his master. He had nowhere else to go.

     “You would be her personal guard. You’d follow her around and make sure that no one tries to hurt her. That’s the simple explanation, anyway. More details would have to be worked out later. I’m assuming that you’ll need room and board?” Varric turned to Orana. “Orana, was it? What were your responsibilities?”

     “I cooked and cleaned,” Orana answered timidly. “Mistress liked it when I played the lute for her.”

     “Oh, that’s…actually helpful,” Varric replied with genuine surprise. “I don’t know if you noticed, but Hawke doesn’t have much help around that giant estate of hers. Another set of hands sure would be useful. Neither of you have dog allergies, right?”

     Fenris wasn’t sure if that was supposed to be another joke. Then he remembered the hound that had accompanied them to the party and fell on the guards like a terror during the chaos. “No.”

     Varric flashed him a reassuring smile. “Oh, good. Fereldans are pretty attached to their dogs. And Marterel’s a good boy when he’s not ripping apart slavers,” he said, which was probably another joke. “So how about this? Stay in Kirkwall and work for Hawke. You’ll be hired, have a salary, room and board, all that. Spend a few years figuring out where you want to go next. Does that sound good?”

     Fenris glanced at Orana, who met his gaze with hesitation. “I suppose we have no other options,” he allowed. He raised his gaze again to Lady Hawke. “She would approve of this arrangement?”

     Varric followed his gaze to the earnest argument. “You don’t have to worry about them. Hawke and Aveline are old friends. She argues because she’s worried.” He shrugged. “We’ve all been through…a lot lately. But don’t you worry. Hawke’s like family. She’ll listen to me.” He winked and then turned away, strolling over to the argument without apparent concern for the heated argument.

     Fenris watched him leave. He felt no small amount of apprehension regarding this arrangement.

     “Do you think this is the right thing to do?” Orana whispered once they were left alone. Her hand nervously returned to his vambrace, making his skin throb underneath. “She killed Mistress, but she’s been so…kind.” She whispered the word as if it were a daring secret.

     And it was daring to compliment the woman who had killed his master.

     Fenris considered the bizarre performances of generosity he had witnessed. The stew. The guest room. The barrier. He pieced it together in his head but was still baffled by her apparent motivations. “What else could we do?” he whispered back to her.

***

“I didn't want to force the issue before you were ready,” Lady Hawke said apologetically as she led them down the corridor to the armory. “But that collar apparently has to come off.”

     Fenris followed after her in silence. His gaze strayed away from her back to the portraits that were hung on the walls: the red knotwork of the two birds tangled together, her family heraldry; the stoic portraits of what must have been her relatives. Varric quietly fell in-step with them. Orana had excused herself to the kitchen when they returned to the estate. It seemed to him that she wanted to make herself immediately useful.

     The armory was in the same condition he had left it the previous night: the great set of ogre horns was on the floor, long gashes ripped through the paper on the walls. Someone had returned to clean up the vomit. He had seen no other servants here but couldn’t imagine Lady Hawke on her hands and knees, scrubbing bile off the stone.

     “Holy shit,” Varric murmured at the sight of it. “What happened?”

     “An accident,” Lady Hawke explained charitably.

     “What sort of accident?”

     “The accidental kind.” Lady Hawke gestured for Fenris to stand in the center of the room. She and Varric stood on the other side of the room, opposite the fallen ogre horns. The path between him and the door was clear, and that helped ease the tension in his stomach. “So. How do we get this thing off you?”

     “I don’t know,” Fenris replied.

     “You don’t know?” Lady Hawke repeated. “How do you not know?”

     “No, this isn’t the sort of thing that he could put on himself,” Varric answered for him. “Do you see how the chains are connected behind him?” He circled around Fenris, his eyes following the path of the chains looping around his ribcage. “Right here between his shoulder blades. The most flexible elf in Thedas couldn’t get their hands up there. You get put into armor like this, you don’t put it on yourself.”

     Fenris tensed at the sound of his voice coming behind him. He fixed his gaze on the red scarf on the shelf, holding his breath in his throat. His muscles were tense.

     Varric ran one finger up the chain hanging straight down his spine. “I think what we’ll have to do is—”

     Fenris felt his muscles jump at the contact, but before he could do or say anything, Lady Hawke had swatted the offending hand away. But that didn’t stop him from spinning around on the spot and retreating several steps. Danger screamed in his head, but all he could think about was the sudden, inexplicable concern that he had just offended Lady Hawke and her guest. “I—I’m sorry,” he forced out an apology, staring down at the floor.

     But Lady Hawke spoke with patient understanding. “I should have warned you, Varric, that he doesn’t like it when people touch his chains. That’s how Anders got his nose broken.” She smiled at Fenris. “No apologies are necessary, but thank you for not elbowing Varric in the face.”

     Fenris flushed. She was teasing him, he was certain of it. But he didn’t know how to respond.

     “Let’s try this again.” Lady Hawke gestured for him to return to the center of the floor, then she and Varric resumed their previous positions. “So it unlocks in the back. But there’s this junction at the front. Does it not do anything?”

     “It likely just connects the chains that are wrapped around his chest,” Varric responded. He folded his arms over his broad chest and gestured with a finger. “You would have to disconnect it in the back, then the front, then get it over his head. But the actual collar looks too small to remove. Is there a hinge somewhere? Does it open?”

     “I think there’s a hinge,” Lady Hawke murmured as she examined him. She sighed and ran a hand through her dark hair. “But that lock in the back—I’ve never seen anything quite like it. I don’t know how to remove it.”

     “Magic?” Varric suggested. “They love that shit in Tevinter.”

     “Fenris, would you mind turning around for me?” Lady Hawke questioned, tracing a circle in the air with her forefinger. “And I need you to remove your greatsword. I only need to look at the lock on your back. You can tell me to stop if you’re uncomfortable.”

     Fenris faced the door and loosened the greatsword from his back. A rise of anxiety climbed up his throat, hot and sour like bile, as he felt keenly aware of her presence behind him. He stared at the open door and tried to let his mind drift. No one stood between him and the exit. He traced the path from the armory to the front entrance in his mind, and somehow that calmed his stomach.

     Lady Hawke fell silent. Fenris braced himself for her fingers, poking and prodding, but it never came. She simply stood there and examined him. “I don’t sense a thread of magic here,” she declared. “And there’s no apparent keyhole, either. It might be a different kind of locking mechanism. Like a puzzle.”

     “What do you mean by thread of magic?” Varric questioned from behind him, farther away. He was keeping his distance.

     “It’s like a magic-was-here sign. Some indication that magic is involved,” Lady Hawke explained. “It usually feels to me like an invisible string that leads straight to the Fade. And then I’d use a spell or something to pull on it and whoops! Magic.”

     “That shit is weird.”

     Lady Hawke laughed under her breath. “You’re not wrong, but it’s also not necessary here.” She sighed. “I almost wish it was. I’ve never been very good at puzzles. Do you mind if I touch this lock?”

     Fenris realized after a moment that the question was directed towards him. He wasn’t used to being addressed during these sorts of examinations. “No,” he answered. His voice sounded less than confident. But their quiet discussions about his collar had birthed a new fear in the depths of his mind: that he might be trapped in the collar. He ran over every scrap of instruction that he’d ever overheard, but all of it was less than useful. Lady Hawke and Varric had already figured out what little he knew.

     Her fingers brushed over the knobs of his spine as she curled them under the lock, making his back tense. She held the chain taut in her fingers, so that she was no longer touching him. He was almost grateful that she was careful to avoid his skin. Even the glance of her fingers made his skin ache.

     “Well, fuck,” Lady Hawke swore after a moment.

     “What?” Fenris asked, startled, before he could help himself.

     “No, it’s not you. You’re fine, alright? You’re doing good.” Lady Hawke released the lock and stepped away from him again, and it was only then that he realized how tense he was. “So, the bad news is that I was correct. There’s no magic, no key. Just some weird puzzle-like mechanism that likely causes it to pop open.”

     “And the good news?” Varric asked hopefully.

     “There isn’t any, not really,” Lady Hawke answered with a shrug. “I might be able to brute-force it open with a spell—just blast it apart with magic—but the collateral damage would include his spine if I’m not careful. My only other option is to spend some time fiddling around with it and hope I can stumble upon the correct sequence to unlock it.”

     “Well, it’s something, isn’t it?”

     “I’m worried, though.”

     “About what?”

     “Fenris.”

     Fenris was surprised to hear his name in response. He turned and faced her again. His newfound knowledge that he might be trapped in this collar affected how the chains felt dangling over his bare skin. The links felt colder and heavier than ever. “You don’t need to concern yourself with me,” he said. “I can tolerate it. And your magic is unlikely to hurt me.”

     Lady Hawke crossed her arms over her chest. “Except you can’t really control that lyrium under your skin, can you? I’ve seen how it reacts to the magic in the air, how it pulses when you’re shocked or scared. How it did nothing when Danarius nearly killed you with that walking bomb. There is a method to how the lyrium is responding, but you have no idea how to control it.” She shook her head and gave him a strange, sympathetic look. “But it’s not that. Any time someone touches you, you lash out. Any time someone stands behind you or even between you and the door, and you act like a scared, beaten dog. I can’t begin to imagine what Danarius did to you to cause these sorts of reactions.”

     Fenris stared at her for a moment. He suddenly felt very far away from his body. “I… don’t know what you’re talking about. I was his favorite.”

Chapter Text

The room had fallen silent when Orana arrived with tea. Fenris lingered in the center of the room, acutely aware of the way his chains clung to the sides of his rib cage. Lady Hawke had pulled away from him in thought, and she’d wandered over to Varric in silence. No one spoke and only Orana moved, setting down her tray and pouring two cups of steaming hot tea. She handed one to Lady Hawke and another to Varric.

     “One for Fenris, too, if you please,” Lady Hawke said as she received her cup. “And one for yourself. It’s been a long morning.”

     “You’re very generous, Mistress.” Orana glanced at her tray, where she’d discreetly placed two additional porcelain cups. Those were not meant for slaves. Or servants. Or whatever they were. Those were meant for hosting dignified guests. Fenris could see her turning this over in her mind. “I will return in a second with some extra cups for us—”

     “You have them with you, don’t you?” Lady Hawke questioned, gesturing to the tray. “Use those.”

     “I…” Orana hesitated—and Fenris knew that she was torn between questioning if she was sure about her generosity or simply doing what she had been instructed to do. She settled on the latter and began to pour. “Thank you, Mistress.”

     “Hawke is fine,” Lady Hawke corrected her. “Or messere, if you insist.”

     “Thank you, messere,” Orana repeated with a small, discreet smile. She was blushing when she handed Fenris his tea.

     Fenris replaced his greatsword and accepted the cup. His gauntlets clacked against the delicate porcelain as he held it. In Tevinter, they were thicker and made of ceramic, darkly glazed and stenciled with dramatic, golded imagery. These were thinner, with delicate red brush strokes sealed in a sheer glaze. A roasted aroma wafted from its amber surface, making his mouth water as he cradled it in his palm. He was starving.

     “Mm!” Hawke made a surprised noise that sharply drew the attention of both elves in the room. She’d sipped the tea and licked the droplets from her lips. “Oh, this is good. How did you do that? It’s…roasted?”

     “Y-yes, Mis—messere,” Orana stammered. It was clear she found the flattery overwhelming. “Is that not how it’s done in the South? I’m sorry if I—”

     “No, it’s delicious,” Hawke reassured her. “I’ve never had tea prepared like this before.”

     “Well, if you don’t hire her, then I might hire her myself,” Varric said, catching her eye and grinning. “Something like this would get the kalna to agree to just about anything.”

     Fenris sipped the tea: it was warm and slightly nutty from the roasting. The herbs and the water had a different taste than he was expecting, somehow deeper and darker. He couldn’t quite isolate what was so different about it. Orana helped herself to her tea with trembling hands and drank it slowly. She caught his eye over the rim of her delicate cup and gave him a small smile. He sensed her delight, bright and barely contained. Hadriana never complimented her cooking. And the extra cups were to replace the ones lost to her rage.

     Hawke and Varric were discussing the potential of their hiring for the first time since he’d approached them earlier that morning. She sipped her tea slowly as she considered his words. “I don’t know if I need a bodyguard,” she mused as she placed her cup on the saucer. “Kirkwall has had no shortage of dangers and I’ve survived them all. I’ve even won a title because of it. I can’t imagine what a bodyguard could do for me that I couldn’t do for myself.”

     “Isabela had to stab you in the leg because a Tevinter magister was using blood magic on you,” Varric said, pointedly raising his eyebrows. “And apart from the minor issue of a Qunari invasion, a lot of our problems have been magical in nature. You’ve seen for yourself what Fenris can do. And he’s not a mage, he’s not a templar. No apostasy, no lyrium addiction. Totally legal.”

     “You’re not saying I should hire him so that he could stab me in the leg the next time we encounter a maleficar?”

     Fenris almost choked on his tea. He forced it down and shot Varric a look of alarm, but Varric wasn’t looking at him. It was difficult to imagine being permitted to do such a thing and not immediately being beaten within an inch of his life.

     Varric waved his free hand in a dismissive gesture. “Not at all. Unless that’s what it takes,” he added as if he’d just thought of it. “But Fenris might be capable of countering a lot of different magic. Shit you and I haven’t even thought of yet.”

     Hawke frowned at her in thought.

     “I’m only saying, Hawke,” Varric pressed in a gentle tone. “That target on your back is only going to get bigger now that you have that fancy title. Danarius only cared to invite you in the first place because of your title, and do you think he’s the only one who’s going to try something like this? You need someone to watch your back. And again—completely legal. Meredith can’t touch him. Carver won’t suffer blowback because of this.”

     Hawke raised her gaze to Fenris, who briefly found himself looking straight into her eyes. It sent a quick shock down his spine before he looked away. Slaves were not supposed to look their betters in the eyes. And he found it felt…strangely intimate. It was uncomfortable.

     “What do you think, Fenris?” Hawke asked. “Is that something you want? To come work for me as a bodyguard?”

     “My options are limited, messere, as are my skills,” Fenris answered.

     “That’s not really a yes.”

     “Call it a hunch, Hawke, but I don’t think either of them are real familiar with the word,” Varric muttered, though he didn’t seem to have any real expectation of them not hearing. “I’ve already talked to them about it. They’re willing to come and work for you while they figure out what else to do with their newfound freedom. Think about it. A bodyguard that can counter almost any form of magic and a domestic who can play the lute and brew the best tea you’ve ever had.” He caught Orana’s eye and winked at her. She turned a darker shade of scarlet.

     Hawke stared down at her tea in thought. She drained the last of its contents and set it aside. “Well, we can discuss this another time,” she decided. “Aveline threatened to fine him for violating sumptuary laws if she catches him in that collar again.”

     Varric raised his eyebrows. “I think I’m missing how this qualifies.”

     Hawke shrugged at his questioning gaze. “Apparently the nobles are feeling very touchy about anyone being seen in anything that could be mistaken for Qunari regalia,” she explained. “And the city guard are also feeling very touchy about anyone being seen in anything that could be mistaken for Qunari regalia. Considering how the entire invasion started…well. So now the law states that only Qunari can wear anything resembling Qunari regalia. And Fenris isn’t Qunari.”

     “I don’t disagree with the end result here, but we’ve already clarified that there’s no way he could put this armor on himself.” Varric looked directly at Fenris. “Did you?”

     “No,” Fenris answered, looking down at his nearly empty cup. “Master thought the Champion of Kirkwall would appreciate it.”

     Hawke sucked in a sharp breath. “Well,” she said in a bright and brittle tone, “Danarius is dead, so I suppose it’s too late to tell him how entirely wrong he is. And I think we should move forward with getting that collar off you.” Her tone softened. “I’m afraid the process could be rather uncomfortable. It will take some time, and in close proximity, to figure out how to unlock it.”

     “I—I want it off,” Fenris said breathlessly, his frustration coloring his tone. All he could think about was the weight of the collar around his neck, the chains brushing against his bare skin. He didn’t care about fines or the delicate sensibilities of the nobles. All he cared about was removing the collar.

     “I could send for Anders,” Hawke suggested. “He’s a healer who regularly works with other victims that have escaped from—”

     “I’m not a victim,” Fenris interrupted, boldly staring straight at her for a split-second. He caught himself and lowered his gaze to the floor, blinking rapidly several times. But that word—victim—burned white-hot in his mind. “There’s no need, messere. I’ll be fine.”

     “And maybe fewer people would be better,” Varric surmised. “I think I’m going to go pay a visit to Aveline. If she’s feeling heat from the nobility and coming down on you, then it’s likely she has no idea what’s going on. Maybe she’ll give up trying to fine a former slave who doesn’t have a coin to his name.”

     Hawke blew out a breath. “Yeah, good idea,” she agreed.

     Varric departed from the room, but as he passed Fenris, he said, “You’re going to be fine, elf.” His tone was so convincing that Fenris almost believed him.

     “Orana,” Hawke addressed her once they were alone. “Would you be willing to prepare a meal? Something for the whole household, I think. I’ll defer to you on what you can come up with.” She smiled warmly at her.

     “Of course, messere.” Orana retrieved the empty cups, stacked them on her tray, and slipped out of the room.

     Fenris found himself alone with Hawke for the second time. Orana left the door open as she departed from the room, and that was somehow comforting. But he still felt a jolt of fear straight down to his stomach as she looked at him thoughtfully. It was one thing to be alone and trapped in a room with someone more powerful than himself, and it was another thing entirely to be her focus of attention.

     Hawke crossed her arms over her chest as she studied him. He noticed the span of her shoulders and musculature of her upper arms through the men’s tunic she wore for the first time. She was a mage, but she had the physique of a soldier. “I think this room is too stuffy and confining,” she decided after a moment. “Follow me. I have somewhere else in mind for this.”

***

Fenris realized almost immediately that the bedchamber belonged to the owner of the estate: Hawke. It was not a realization that he welcomed, though he kept his features blank as he followed her across the threshold. The bedchamber was large and spacious, positioned in the rear corner of the estate. One exterior wall was dominated by a fireplace, and the other was set with a glass door that opened to a balcony. Long, narrow windows were framed in deep red curtains that reached the floor. A four-poster bed had been positioned so that it faced the balcony, and in the center slumbered a massive hound.

     “Marterel,” Hawke admonished as she shut the door, prompting the hound to raise his massive head. He flashed her a look that was almost guilty. “Get off the bed. You have your own. I need mine.”

     Fenris went still. Panic seized his limbs and rooted him to the spot.

     Neither appeared to notice. Hawke crossed the room and threw open the curtains and the door, inviting in cool, silver sunshine and a breeze that smelled faintly of ocean water. Marterel heaved his bulk off the bed and trotted across the room. He paused to sniff Fenris’s leg, causing him to jump, before letting out a snort and proceeding to his own bed.

     Hawke hauled open the chest at the foot of the bed and searched through it, then slammed it shut. She went to another chest near the door to the balcony and forced it open. Fenris noticed an armor stand beside the second chest, adorned with a full set of grey iron chainmail armor. It had been crafted for a tall, well-built woman, and it had seen battle. Scrapes and scratches shone all over the iron, and something dark stained the gauntlets and the boots. So she was a soldier. Or used to be.

     “Unfortunately,” Hawke remarked as she straightened upright again. “I have no spare armor stands available. So your armor is going to go in here for now.” She nudged the chest with her boot as she looked at him. Her demeanor changed almost immediately, becoming concerned. “Are you alright?”

     “I’m fine,” Fenris answered. Her voice had held pity for him, and that intensely bothered him. Whatever his circumstances were, he refused to be pitied. That was almost worse than being abandoned in this strange city.

     Hawke appeared not to believe him. “I’m sorry about all this, but it has to be done. I know you’re sensitive about being touched, and I promise—”

     “I’m not sensitive,” Fenris growled at her, surprising them both with his interruption. He pushed through his surprise—she insisted on not being his master, so he would not show her the respect he’d shown his master. “And I grow tired of being asked if I’m fine or alright. I don’t understand why you insist on asking. Of course, I’m not fine. You killed my master, and now I’m stranded here.”

     Fenris almost regretted the outburst. An outburst like that in Tevinter would earn a slave so many lashings they couldn’t move for three days. He’d seen them dragged in afterward, bleeding from their backs and the soles of their feet, then dumped in their bedding and left to fester.

     Hawke stared at him for a moment, her dark brows drawn over her eyes, her mouth pressed in a hard line. It accentuated the sharp rise of her cheekbones and the definition of her jawline. “Well,” she said after a moment. “I suppose I’m glad to hear what you really think.”

     Fenris stared at her.

     That…was not the reaction he expected.

     “I’m not sure what it is you’re expecting from me,” Hawke continued after a moment, a statement so painfully ironic that it made Fenris want to laugh. But she was serious as she spoke. “If you want to work for me as my bodyguard, then you’ll listen to my orders when you’re on duty, nothing more and nothing less. But I’m not going to order you about as Danarius did, and I do check in with my people from time to time. If that makes you uncomfortable…well, there’s not much I can do about that. I’m not going to stop.”

     “It’s unnecessary,” Fenris shot back. If she wasn’t going to drag him out and have him whipped, then he was going to tell her exactly what was on his mind. “Your pity is unnecessary.”

     “It’s not pity. It’s concern.”

     “Then your concern is unnecessary,” Fenris growled. “Why does it even matter? Why do you pretend to care?”

     “I’m not pretending—”

     “You don’t know me, and pretending otherwise is insulting.”

     “I don’t have to know you to care,” Hawke told him sharply, but she didn’t sound frustrated. She sounded exasperated. “You’re all skin and bones underneath that armor, and you broke my healer’s nose when he touched your chains. Of course, I’m concerned. I am doing the best I can to get you out of an impossible situation. And if you want to be surly about it, then fine. I can handle it. I’ve dealt with surly. But don’t accuse me of pretending, Fenris.”

     Fenris stared at her silently, but he couldn’t think of a single thing to say in response. He was accustomed to violence. Dishes thrown at walls. Fists in his hair. He didn’t know how to respond to a woman who restrained her anger—and the fact that she was, and he wasn’t, left him feeling somewhat ashamed.

     “I don’t want to argue about this,” Hawke said. “Please allow me to remove the rest of your armor. I know you can’t do it yourself, and I suspect I’m correct in assuming Orana wouldn’t know how.”

     “She doesn’t,” Fenris agreed warily. “But you do?”

     “I can figure it out,” Hawke replied as she approached him. “I know my way around armor. And the rest doesn’t appear to have the same lock. But first—your greatsword, please.” She held out her hand.

     Fenris handed over his greatsword with no small amount of reluctance. He felt vulnerable and defenseless without the weapon, despite the lyrium aching under his skin. Hawke hefted the weapon with ease, wielding it with a familiarity that only a soldier would have. She propped it against the wall beside the chest that would store his armor. His eyes strayed to the armor stand as he wondered what army she’d fought with. He'd seen no one else in Kirkwall wearing anything similar to her grey iron chainmail.

     Hawke returned to him and began removing the other parts of his armor. She—to his frustration—insisted on peppering him with questions as she worked, asking if he would please extend his left hand, then his right. He indulged her ridiculous questions as she removed his vambraces, then his greaves. It was easier than turning over in his mind why they bothered him so much.

     “Raise your arms, please,” Hawke instructed as she set aside the armor. She had been carefully laying out the various parts in a row on the floor. “I need to remove your belt.”

     Fenris raised his arms and clasped his hands behind his head, as his master had instructed him to do so many times. His chains rattled with the movement. He tried not to think about her hands on his waist, the slight jostling of his belt tugging on his body. It was harder to ignore the faint scent of her perfume, some blend of flowers he didn’t recognize. His mind wandered back to the previous night: the swell of her breast under his cheek, her heartbeat through her clothes.

     Hawke ducked around behind him. His belt was not something he could remove by himself. It held up the tassets over his thighs, and it was somehow locked behind him. She appeared to be working it out as she went along—but when her knuckles brushed over his lower back, the lyrium throbbed with agony, and he hissed in pain.

     “Sorry,” Hawke apologized.

     “Stop apologizing,” Fenris gritted through clenched teeth.

     Hawke did something to his belt that caused it to slacken, then did it again on the other side, and the belt fell free, taking the tassets with it. She let it sag into her hands, then rose to her feet and placed it on the floor with everything else.

     Fenris exhaled slowly. The absence of his armor, with the exception of his collar, made him feel lighter and more vulnerable than before. It didn’t affect him like the loss of his greatsword affected him. He felt relief that the weight was gone. That was a surprise.

     “Alright, you can lower your arms,” Hawke instructed, her cheeks flushed pink from the exertion. She gathered the pieces of armor from the floor and carefully stored it in the chest.

     Fenris lowered his arms to his sides. His skin felt cool where the armor had once sat, bands of sweat wrapping around his forearms and his waist where the armor pressed against his bare skin. He glanced around the room as she worked. It appeared to be well lived-in, but there was little personally identifying about it. Except for Marterel, on a fur-lined dog bed in the corner. His great head rested on his front paws, and his large brown eyes tracked his mistress back and forth across the room.

     “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable on the bed,” Hawke said as she turned away from the chest for the last time. “Mind the dog hair.”

     A thumping noise drew Fenris’s attention to the corner of the room: it was Marterel, mutely wagging his tail, having apparently recognized the word dog. Fenris crossed the room and perched himself on the edge of the mattress. It was soft and comforting, and that combined with the absence of most of his armor made him want to sink into it. He pulled himself to the edge and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

     The mattress dipped down behind him. It was Hawke, unlacing and tugging off her boots. She pulled herself onto the mattress and sat behind him on her knees, one leg on either side of him. His skin prickled as her fingers drew near.

     “Now for the hardest part,” Hawke breathed. “Tell me if it gets to be too much.”

     “It won’t, messere,” Fenris muttered. His skin itched to get the collar removed. He wasn’t sure that he could tolerate another night wearing it now that he knew there was a real risk he could be trapped in it.

     Hawke gave an exasperated sigh—which ghosted across his skin. Fenris shoved down the urge to shiver. “I know you don’t want to talk, but it would be helpful to know if an elbow is going to come at me or something,” she said under her breath. She didn’t seem angry at him for it.

     Fenris said nothing. He stared ahead at Marterel in his dog bed, watching them with curious brown eyes. His tail had stopped wagging.

     Hawke’s fingers gingerly brushed against his collar, careful of his skin, then raised to the back of his head. “Hold on. Your hair is in the way.” She combed her fingers through his white hair, up from the base of his skull, like she was going to pull it up for him. The gentle touch went through him like a shock. “Can you hold—”

     Fenris felt an alarming shiver shoot straight up his spine and darted away from the bed in a blind panic. He was two steps from the bed when he realized what he’d done, and he turned back to look at her. His mouth opened with an apology or an excuse or something, but nothing came out. Words were beyond him.

     “Did I hurt you?” Hawke asked, her voice carrying the same alarm that he felt.

     Fenris stared at her, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak. No. No, that was not what happened at all. His confusion was lodged in his throat, scalp tingling with the memory of her fingers raking up through his hair. It felt almost…good. That was terrifying.

     Hawke drew herself to the edge of the bed. “Maybe we should take a break,” she suggested. “Let’s see what Orana has cooked up for us, and we’ll try again in the afternoon.”