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The letter is short, but the writing is cramped and full of unnecessary flourishes that force Fenris to pause and trace over words with impatient eyes in the firelight. He reads it, then reads it again to make sure he’s understood correctly, then skims one last time in disbelief before crumpling the parchment in a tight ball and casting it into the campfire, which crackles and sputters as it takes hold.

Corrupt Warden mages and demon armies and the Fade. And Corypheus, alive again, even though Fenris had taken a battleaxe and cloven the thing’s body to mangled pieces himself in his frenzy, the words You owe fealty to any magister of Tevinter ringing through his ears all the while. And Hawke has decided to get involved in this mess now, because even his contempt for titles of champion and hero has not stopped him from being an insufferable and righteous busybody who’s out to solve everyone’s problems, whether or not they’re any of his business.

The information in Varric’s letter is coded out of necessity. It’s risky having mail carried so deep into Tevinter, where the Venatori swarm like gnats and anything too revealing can be a liability. Hawke is alive, and he’s parted ways with the Inquisition, and now he’s on his way to Weisshaupt or, perhaps, already there, depending on when Fenris receives the message.

It was penned in Haring 9:41, according to the heading. It’s been some time now since Fenris cared to keep track of the date, but he faintly remembers hearing it’s early Drakonis now, 9:42. Months have passed already. His fault for not checking in sooner—but then, that’s the consequence of living on the road and off it, of remaining untraceable but for the wreckage of slaver caravans he leaves behind. The only reason he stopped in Vyrantium in the first place was to follow some whispered rumors about a traveling magister who’s gotten too big for his boots. If not for that, he wouldn’t have gotten the message for months longer still.

Bitterly, he thinks it would have been better that way, if he’d waited longer. Hawke doesn’t want to tell him anything, so maybe he shouldn’t know. Maybe not even this much, bare and minimal as it is. Fine. It’s fine. He doesn’t have to care.

He puts out the fire, covers the traces of it, then climbs up to the sturdy boughs of a tree to settle in for the night, his rucksack and sword within reach. Spring is near enough that his cloak is all he needs to keep warm. He clutches at it in a possessive, distrusting way, an instinct ingrained in him from so many years of deprivation. Anything that he has could be taken from him. That hasn’t changed, even if his circumstances have. The only certainties he has are his rage, the constant pain of his markings, the too-great affection he harbors for a man who left him without a backward glance.

(And if Hawke were here, he’d get a sort of downcast look, tell Fenris earnestly, “And you have my heart,” and he’d likely mean it. But what does that amount to, really? What does it mean to love someone only at arm’s length?)

Restless and agitated, he closes his eyes and mulls over his plans for the near future. It’s all simple enough: recon on the magister, killing the magister, freeing the magister’s slaves and directing them toward places where they can find help and safety. Then he’ll take the dead magister’s valuables to a fence for some coin, stock up on supplies, maybe replace his armor with something lighter to prepare for the warm months ahead. He’ll go back north to Ventus, or maybe down to the southwestern border in search of caravans coming up from Orlais and thereabouts. War has done nothing to quell the slave trade with the South. There will always be work to do on that front, and Fenris will have to be the one to do it, as ever.

In the moments before sleep claims him, his thoughts drift blearily to Kirkwall, then to a large, anonymous fortress he’s never seen, hidden away between snowcapped mountains in the Frostbacks. Hawke probably hated it at Skyhold, he finds himself thinking. Probably left as quickly as he could. The idea, somehow, is a small comfort.

The last time they’d seen each other, they were staying at a shabby inn just at the edge of Tantervale. It was time for them to leave the Free Marches, they knew, but there was some disagreement on what that meant. Fenris wanted to go north to help dismantle the bustling slave trade; Hawke wanted to go south to chase the Circle rebellions and help end the war. And the problem wasn’t that neither of them would budge, but that they wouldn’t ask each other to do so. They sat on the edge of a farewell that they both fervently pretended wasn’t coming. There was still some hope, perhaps, that things would change.

It was late in the morning, the winter air cool and biting. Hawke, hungover from a night of drinking cheap ale too enthusiastically with other Fereldans at the tavern, pulled his clothes on with a lazy sort of inexpertness while Fenris leaned beside the doorframe and waited, already dressed.

Abruptly, Hawke swore quietly and unlaced his boots, then started lacing them all over again. At Fenris’s huff of amusement, the man turned to squint at him confusedly, grimacing at the light from the window opposite.

“Each time you drink, you have a worse time of it the morning after,” said Fenris. “You’re getting old.”

“You’re nearly as old as I am,” Hawke grumbled, going back to his boot laces.

“And I drink far less,” Fenris said dryly.

“Well,” said Hawke. “Age doesn’t bring wisdom for all of us.” Then he asked, “Was I much of a bother when I came to bed?”

“You reeked,” said Fenris, “but that’s the extent of it.” He chose not to mention the drooling. Even a sober Hawke was prone to slobbering like a mabari.

Done with his boots, Hawke chuckled, straightening up. “We’ll have a long bath tonight. Your nose won’t suffer much longer.”

Fenris hummed. “Until then, you’ll inflict your stench on everyone you pass.”

“As I’m wont to do,” said Hawke. He stood. “Ready to go?”

Fenris nodded, and with Hawke following just behind him he picked up his sword and walked out.

Mercenary work was joyless, but it paid, at least, and wasn’t terribly difficult. The war hadn’t broken Tantervale yet, so the problems here were a more predictable sort. Gangs preying on merchants in the slums. Nobles wanting armed escorts. Families searching for lost children; besotted youths searching for lost fiancées. No abominations running amok, no templar extremists killing innocents. And Tantervale wasn’t surrounded by unruly wilderness, which meant they never had to wander through spider-filled caves. A big selling point for Hawke, who was more terrified of the things than he’d readily admit.

Today they were working in the alienage. There was a tanner being harassed by debt collectors, who implied none too subtly that his children would be the ones to suffer if he didn’t settle his payments. No promise of gold for this job, but he had an in with one of the smiths in town and promised to get their weapons serviced free of charge. Hawke had nudged Fenris and made a crude joke about polishing swords. Fenris, holding back a laugh, forced a sigh instead.

The collectors were weak and cowardly. It was to be expected with that sort. At first they sneered and postured and spat about knife-ears, but the moment Fenris’s fist struck one of them hard enough to send the goon flying into the far wall, they caved, groveled. Still had to be roughed up a bit, though, to make sure they wouldn’t try anything later. A nose broken here, a wrist sprained there. A necessary fight, but not really a fair one.

On their way back through the slums and toward the alienage, Hawke said, “Reminds me of Lowtown, this shithole.”

“Feeling nostalgic for home?” asked Fenris.

There was a pause. Hawke hummed thoughtfully, then said, “You asked me once if I would stay in Kirkwall or go back to Ferelden. Do you remember what I told you?”

He did remember. “You said you’d already started a new life. That you were moving on, surviving.”

“And do you remember your reply?”

Fenris remembered that, too, but he hesitated to answer. He looked up at the sky, dark with clouds that heralded a coming storm. The slums were bustling with people, noisy and vibrant and content in spite of everything, doing their best. It did not remind him of Kirkwall in the slightest, where the misery was so thick it seemed impenetrable, where the people seemed to have stopped trying. And it didn’t smell of rotting fish like the alleys of Lowtown near the docks.

He said, “That you should want more for yourself. As I did.” And really, it shouldn’t have been past tense. He supposed he still wanted more, just wouldn’t ask for it. Putting words to his desires would make it all the more painful when he failed to attain them.

Hawke laid an arm around Fenris’s shoulders, casual as anything. Affection from him wasn’t rare, but it wasn’t often a public thing, either. They tried not to draw attention to themselves. And this—this was just far enough from being intimate to stay within the realm of acceptability. It was a friendly gesture, so long as Fenris didn’t lean into the touch. (Not that he would anyway. Hawke still stank of sweat and day-old drink.)

“Kirkwall,” said Hawke, quiet and oddly stilted, “is not my home. Nor would I want it to be.”

“Ferelden?”

“Possibly. Possibly not.” Then, “Maybe I’ll settle down in Orlais, once they’ve decided whether or not to kill their empress.” At Fenris’s disgusted noise, Hawke laughed. “Not a fan of Orlais, I take it?”

“The Imperium’s lesser cousin,” said Fenris, feeling a snarl pull at his mouth. “The only things separating them are the lack of a magocracy, and the titles they give their slaves.”

“Fair points all around,” said Hawke. “Rivain, then.”

“It would certainly be a change of pace,” said Fenris. “And you do have a standing offer to serve as Isabela’s first mate.”

“A title I’d gladly let you take instead. I’m not much of an explorer.”

“Not fond of having responsibilities, either.”

Hawke clucked his tongue. “Rude, but true.” He squeezed Fenris’s shoulder lightly. “Was that a yes to Rivain, then? Once we’ve finished our business?”

Turning his head, Fenris eyed Hawke carefully, trying to puzzle out what this implied, if anything. Hawke, though, betrayed nothing in his expression. He seemed to notice Fenris watching him and stared right back, eyes shining with stupid curiosity.

“When will that be, Hawke?” asked Fenris.

“Hard to say,” said Hawke, frowning. “You’ll be in Tevinter a while, I imagine.”

Fenris flinched and looked away. There was his answer, then. “Yes,” he said to the pressed dirt that made up the ugly road. “I imagine so.”

Apparently Hawke didn’t notice his discomfort. He said, “Fighting the good fight is known to be fairly time-consuming. But in case I haven’t said it, Fenris, I am proud of you.”

“For what?” Fenris asked, not really caring about the answer. There was a feeling in his gut that reminded him of that night when he walked out of the bedroom at Hawke’s estate, weighty and sick. Reminded him of those two years when he could barely meet Hawke’s eye without a terrible loneliness gripping him. It was the same as before: He was going to walk away and Hawke was going to let him, without a syllable of protest.

“Returning to that hellish place so you can make it better,” said Hawke. “You could just as easily haven chosen never to go back, and I don’t think much of anyone could blame you for it.”

“Not easily,” said Fenris. He had an obligation. A vendetta, too. Impossible to tell which drove him more.

“No,” Hawke agreed. “I suppose not.” So very softly, he added, “Still, it’s an admirable thing to do.”

Fenris didn’t respond. They made it back to the tanner, and from there took on a few more odd jobs from the residents of the alienage. Fenris still hadn’t found a polite way yet to inform people that he wasn’t Dalish, that the markings on his face had nothing to do with the worship of gods, that he didn’t know any more of their language than they knew of Tevene. They were owed more patience than he had left in him, he thought.

The day stretched on for a while as they finished each job, and they didn’t talk about their plans again. The earlier conversation may as well not have happened. Once the evening came, Hawke tried to drag him along to the bathhouse, as promised. Fenris, though, dug his heels in and pulled out of a confused Hawke’s grasp.

“You’re not coming?”

“I don’t have the energy to endure being leered at,” said Fenris. It was true and it wasn’t. Or it was enough of the truth to be palatable.

“Ah,” said Hawke, and looked suddenly guilty. “We could have a private room?”

Fenris shook his head the smallest bit, the gesture enough to make Hawke’s brow knit in a frown. “People would talk,” said Fenris.

There was a time when Hawke would have replied Let them, but it seemed he’d known Fenris long enough to have realized it wasn’t shame or fear at play now. It was resentment. It was anger and the infuriating knowledge that that anger had no outlet. What could they do, truly, when faced with malicious whispers about the warrior and his elven plaything? Nothing at all. Not in a place like this. And Fenris really was too tired to shoulder the burden of his rage, too preoccupied with the grief already clawing at him. Too weighed down by his own thoughts to deal with the consequences of anyone else’s.

Hawke, seeming at last to pick up on Fenris’s foul mood, asked, “Should we stay in tonight, then?”

“I was serious about the smell, Hawke,” Fenris said, his words met with a wounded expression. “Go. I’ll be waiting back at the room.”

And he did just that. He sat down by the foot of the bed and waited, trying his best not to think about anything at all and failing, until Hawke eventually returned. Without speaking, Hawke walked over and came to kneel down on the floor just in front of Fenris, peering into his eyes as Fenris gazed back with all the defeat he could no longer conceal. Moving slowly and deliberately, Hawke cupped his face, hands tracing along Fenris’s jaw, then leaned in as if to kiss him. Instead, he pressed their foreheads together, closed his eyes, breathed deeply. Fenris didn’t shut his own eyes, too afraid of missing something; didn’t return the tender caress, his hands balled helplessly into fists on the cold floor.

Hawke murmured, “I wish you didn’t have to go.”

In that moment, Fenris wanted to shout Then ask me to stay. Ask me to follow you and I will. Ask me for anything at all, Hawke, so I can feel for once that there’s something I can give you. Selfishly, or maybe cowardly, he replied instead, “You could come with me,” but as the words finally escaped his mouth he realized how wrong they were. This was not a journey Hawke could make with him, and it never would be.

Breathing out a chuckle, Hawke said, “It will be easier for you if I don’t.” And he was right, but that didn’t make it any less painful to hear. He said, “I’ll miss you every moment you’re gone.” He said, “And if you don’t come back I’ll be a bloody wreck.”

“You know I’m not leaving yet,” said Fenris, nails digging into his palms. “We still have—” He cut off, struggling to remember the name of the place just west of here.

“Hasmal.” Barely even a whisper. After saying it, Hawke finally moved to kiss him, all too softly.

Fenris, who was ready to bite through his own tongue in frustration, didn’t know how to be gentle or receive gentleness in kind. He pulled back. “I am not fragile,” he muttered.

Laughing again, Hawke said, “Andraste’s tits, Fenris. One of these days, you’re going to learn the difference between romance and pity.” Then he kissed Fenris again, just a bit firmer.

A week later in Hasmal, they parted. Not because the time had come for Fenris to leave, but because it had come for Hawke to. Urgent matters. Something to do with the Wardens. Fenris nodded, pretended to understand, said as little as he could afford to. A part of him hoped stupidly that Hawke would ask for his help, make a belated offer for Fenris to come along, but he didn’t. He just apologized, wished Fenris luck, and kissed him goodbye.

And that was that.

It takes a couple of days for the guilt to start gnawing at Fenris.

He’s been telling himself it’s too late to act on the information in Varric’s letter anyway, but he believes that less with every passing hour. Even if Hawke’s already moved on from the Grey Warden fortress, there will still be a trail to follow. He leaves one everywhere he goes, whether or not he means to. And Fenris has contacts, ways of finding people. It wouldn’t be difficult to track down Hawke if Fenris wanted to look for him. All it requires is the answer to a simple question: Does he want to?

He does. Of course he does. The realization is so immediate he’s ashamed to have questioned it in the first place. After pawning off everything he can afford to be rid of, he spends all his coin buying a horse—or most of it on the horse, the rest on paying off a human beggar to make the transaction on his behalf. He starts down the road to the west on his dapple-grey mare, forgetting all about the magister he was hunting and his intentions of going to Ventus.

It’s a thorny expedition, as he could have guessed it would be. The closer he gets to the North Imperial Highway, the more care he has to take to avoid the Venatori headed southward from Minrathous. Joining the fight against the Inquisition, maybe, supporting Corypheus in his schemes. Fenris doesn’t much care regardless. Or he does, but not nearly enough to do anything about it. He knows better than to take on an army willingly.

On the way, he has time to think. Too much, even, days and days of it. He wonders if this was what Varric meant for him to do, if he’s expected to chase after Hawke with desperate abandon; wonders what he’ll find when he reaches his destination; wonders what he’ll say to Hawke, or what Hawke will say to him, once they’ve reunited. He doesn’t know what’s called for in a situation like this, what he even wants. The questions all running through his head are maddening.

In an effort to distract himself he tries to keep busy, and finds that tending to his horse helps. She’s a sweet old thing, a bit lacking in endurance but calm, at least, not easily spooked. He’s taken to calling her Haddie, something he’d be mortified to be caught doing. It’s just that Hawke’s mabari had been called Calenhad, and all these years later, Fenris still thinks about that dog from time to time, still misses having him around. Ridiculous, this sentimentality, but he can’t help it.

“I wonder if you could learn Diamondback,” he muses as Haddie drinks from a mountain stream. They’re somewhere on the edge of the Anderfels now, either out of the Imperium or close enough to its border for the distinction to be entirely academic. A calm and remote area that’s too far from anything for any nation to bother laying claim to it.

Haddie raises her head from the stream and looks at him sidelong, as she often does when he talks. There’s no gleam of understanding in her dark eyes—horses don’t have the incredible intelligence of Fereldan war hounds, after all—but just plain, simple curiosity.

“I suppose not,” he says, patting her on the neck and taking care not to hurt her with the points of his gauntlet. “But you haven’t met Varric. I imagine if anyone could teach horses to gamble, it would be him. He’s already taught a mabari.”

She goes back to drinking her water, as if having decided there’s no point in politely waiting for him to finish speaking. Still, he goes on to tell her the story of Varric teaching Calenhad how to play cards and, subsequently, how to cheat. The dwarf had been hoping to make use of this strategy at one of the group’s monthly games, only to eventually find out Hawke had figured out his methods and was also using the dog to cheat. The end result was that Varric got two-timed by an animal whose ultimate allegiance was to his owner, and Hawke used everyone’s coin to buy a silk dog bed that Calenhad would immediately ruin by pissing on it.

“There’s a lesson there,” says Fenris, fighting back a smile. “Don’t try to get between a Fereldan and his mabari. And don’t buy anything for a dog that costs more than ten silvers.”

He goes to collect his things from where he’d set them and continue the trek, but as he’s readying the saddlebags he sees Haddie stand suddenly at attention, body stiff and ears flicking anxiously. He stills, too, listening for any signs of danger.

After a long moment, he hears what alarmed his horse. Somewhere in the distance, a high dragon lets out a long, keening roar, like a thousand crows cawing at once. It’s further south, Fenris thinks, deeper into the small mountain range. The opposite direction from where they’re going. He rubs Haddie’s flank soothingly and leads her away, down the slope and toward the calm stillness of the forest ahead, trying to make his own pulse stop thudding wildly in his ears.

Back when the group was still together, when no one had died or left the city or found something more important to them than following Hawke around, they would meet up the first week of every month to play cards. They didn’t always play for coin—Anders and Merrill couldn’t afford it, Sebastian and Aveline liked to make a fuss about gambling, and Isabela was too competitive for her own good when stakes were involved—but Varric insisted they all show up anyway. And for whatever reason, they did, even when they weren’t really up for it, just because Varric and Hawke wanted them to be there. So, much as he would rather have been anywhere else that night, Fenris found himself at one corner of their usual table on a miserable summer evening, nursing a tankard of mead and a dour mood.

“Interesting accessory,” he heard shortly after the third round of the night started.

He turned to Isabela, who’d just plucked a card from his hand so smoothly he almost hadn’t noticed. Almost. “What?” he asked, snatching the card back. If anyone else even saw the exchange, they didn’t bother commenting on it; Isabela had a known penchant for cheating.

“On your wrist,” she said. She tapped the red ribbon, her touch lingering. “It’s new, isn’t it?”

Resisting the impulse to jerk his arm away, he said, “It is.”

“Are you making a fashion statement, or does it mean something?”

The question didn’t seem malicious. There was no knowing glance or judgmentally raised brow, just the flirtatious smirk she always wore to confuse people into saying foolish things. Fingertips still pressed to the cloth, she watched him expectantly, waiting for an answer.

He set his cards face-down on the table and took a long swig of his drink. It was overly sweet, but better than the watered-down piss that passed for ale. He set the tankard down and muttered, “It’s not important.”

“Is it a sore subject?” she asked, then pinched a bit of the fabric between her fingers. “Maybe you shouldn’t put it where—”

He did jerk away then, the movement so forceful it made her recoil in surprise, sent half his cards scattering across the table, made his drink—too empty to spill—slosh about perilously. The worst part was that the thud of his hand hitting against the tabletop drew the rest of the group’s eyes toward them, some alarmed and others wary. Fenris felt his ears go hot with mortification at the unwanted attention. He could just as easily have brushed her hand away or asked her to stop, he knew, but instinct had taken over. He hadn’t wanted her to touch the ribbon, to desecrate it. The thought of her pulling it loose had been viscerally upsetting.

Before he could mumble an apology and excuse himself from the table, Isabela chuckled. “Lesson learned,” she said. “I’ll keep my hands to myself.” She gave him a wink.

Everyone else relaxed, or rolled their eyes, or chuckled along with her. She reached over and helped to gather up his cards, making one of them disappear in the process. As thanks, he nodded and let her get away with the very obvious theft, the tension draining out of him.

The game continued. Fenris folded, his hand not having been especially good even before Isabela’s escapades. He let his attention drift, eventually settling on Aveline, who was seated across the table and watching him rather intently. Her face was so darkly flushed from drinking that her freckles had all but disappeared. It wasn’t the burn of horrible inebriation; that fierce red would start to bloom over her skin after just one pint. She scowled resentfully whenever someone pointed it out.

“It’s a favor,” she said, “on your wrist.” She looked more like she was thinking out loud than trying to call attention to it, like the realization had only just come to her and she was giving voice to it in real time, her eyes narrowed the slightest bit in consideration. But Aveline’s brusque nature had a way of making everything sound a bit like an accusation.

He regretted not getting up and leaving when he had a reason to. He regretted coming here at all, really. He met Aveline’s gaze and said nothing, refusing to fidget or look away as though embarrassed, because he wasn’t. It was just too fresh of a wound to have anyone prodding at it.

“A favor?” Isabela echoed. From the corner of his eye he saw her toying with a copper piece, flipping it between her fingers deftly. Her hands were rarely still. “What are you talking about over there, big girl?”

“It’s an old tradition,” said Aveline. “Knights wore the favors of nobles they were courting to show who they fought for at tourneys. I think they still do it in Orlais.”

Isabela let out a pleased sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Is it red to stand for love?” she asked. “That’s sweet. Gaudy, but sweet.”

Fenris wanted very much to speak up and put an end to this entire conversation, but couldn’t think of a way to do so that wouldn’t draw even more scrutiny. He settled for tearing his eyes away from Aveline to send Isabela a withering look, which was summarily ignored.

“Don’t be stupid,” said Aveline. “The color’s meant to correspond with the lord’s or lady’s house. Red is for the Amell crest.” After the briefest pause, she asked, “Is there something tucked under there, Fenris?”

“No,” he answered through gritted teeth, covering his wrist with his other hand.

“It’s a feather, because I’m hilarious,” Hawke said from further down the table, two seats away from Aveline. “You can stop pestering him now.”

Aveline, who wasn’t, to her credit, trying to be cruel, waved a hand while Isabela just snickered. Fenris didn’t pay either of them any mind, though: He had eyes only for Hawke, the one person he’d tried so desperately to ignore this whole evening but, in the end, couldn’t manage to avoid. Looked at him and was met with a tiny, reassuring smile—or maybe an uncertain one, maybe wondering if something so blatant as a token of favor had been a mistake. It hadn’t been, wasn’t, but Fenris couldn’t make himself return the smile to say as much. Shame still festered in his gut over his own inadequacy, his fears and cowardice. He clutched at the fabric, fingers slipping just under the edges of it.

(He’d been puzzled when Hawke asked to give it to him. Puzzled, too, when Hawke nervously added, “I don’t mean for it to sound like a symbol of possession, I swear. If anything, it’s only meant to serve as a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?” Fenris asked. He held the ribbon in his hand, felt the material, as sturdy as it was soft. Whatever or wherever it had come from, it was finely made.

“How I feel,” said Hawke, like it was the most obvious thing. Then, “You could take it off whenever you wanted, and I’d understand.”

Fenris had swallowed the lump in his throat and said, “I won’t.” He held the length of cloth out, pressed it into Hawke’s hand, and as he pulled away he gave his own warning: “You may find yourself waiting a long time, Hawke. If you ask me to remove it, I shall.”

“I won’t,” Hawke repeated. A grin spread over his face, one that made Fenris’s heart stutter for a moment. “May I?”

Fenris nodded, holding his hand out again, and Hawke began to loop the fabric neatly around his vambrace. It was slow and methodic, reminded Fenris all too vividly of the care with which Hawke had undone Fenris’s armor days before. Undeserved tenderness. Then, suddenly, Hawke stopped, unwound the cloth, reached into his pocket for something.

“Almost forgot,” he said, and held up a small brown and black feather. Probably a hawk, though Fenris wouldn’t know, having never had one pointed out to him. Hawke pressed it against the vambrace and wound the ribbon over it so that the feather barely poked out from either end. “Doesn’t seem fair to only represent the Amell colors,” he explained.

“It’s going to fall out eventually,” said Fenris.

“Well, nothing lasts forever,” said Hawke. “Or, uh. Most things don’t.”

When he finished tying the favor around Fenris’s wrist, he didn’t let go immediately. His hand drifted, grazing Fenris’s palm in a way that set his nerves alight. Then fingers curled, and Hawke lifted Fenris’s hand, pressed his lips to the back of it, to the scaled metal of his gauntlet just over his knuckles. The sight was dizzying, the intimacy of it so profound it was like a punch to the gut. Distantly, Fenris thought it was also a bit disgusting, as his gauntlets had notoriously helped him tear out countless men and beast’s insides.)

Now, at the table in the Hanged Man, a terrible pang in his chest, all Fenris could do was meet Hawke’s worried eye and nod. It did not convey the depth of what he felt, or the harrowing complexity of it, but it expressed what it needed to: that this was not a mistake, that it would not be hidden or ignored. Hawke nodded back, then looked away, leaving Fenris to linger on the memory of that kiss, and the warmth of Hawke’s bare, callused hand, and the weight of the longing in his gaze.

Years passed in which Fenris never took the ribbon off, and Hawke never asked him to.

Except, that is, to tell him to wash it. He did spend a fair bit of time ripping out people’s insides, after all.

According to the guards at the East Gate, no outsiders are permitted to enter the fortress until such time as the First Warden and High Constable have come to an agreement regarding the matter of—

“I am here,” Fenris growls, “to find the Champion of Kirkwall.”

“Champion?” another guard pipes up, blinking rapidly in confusion. “You mean Hawke?”

Forcing himself to stay calm and not jump on the woman, Fenris asks, “Is he here?”

“Not anymore,” she says. “He left… what, a week ago? Two?” She looks to the other guard for confirmation, but he just shrugs.

Relief rushes through Fenris. Still alive, then. “Do you know where he went?”

“Tevinter, if you can believe it,” says the other guard.

After a beat, Fenris closes his eyes. “Tevinter,” he echoes. Exactly where he just fucking came from.

“Can’t really blame him for leaving, I suppose,” the guard continues. “I’m only surprised he stuck around as long as he did, what with everything that’s going on ’round here.”

A hundred thoughts fly through Fenris’s mind. He doesn’t have a single clue where in Tevinter Hawke might have gone, or what he could be doing there in the first place. More errands for the Wardens? For the Inquisition? It’s impossible to say. He clenches his fist, grip tightening on Haddie’s reins. The horse, seeming to sense his agitation, snorts quietly beside him.

“He may have left a message for me,” he says, opening his eyes.

The guards exchange uncertain glances. “I’m sorry, but you still can’t come in,” says the guardswoman.

“I’m not asking—”

“We could send someone to check, couldn’t we?” her partner cuts in, eyeing Fenris anxiously.

She sighs. “We could, but—” She looks to Fenris. “It’s nothing against you, but you could be anyone. And while the Champion may not be a Warden, he is a close ally of the Order, and we can’t just give away his information to the first person who asks.”

Grudgingly, because he can appreciate the caution and the sense of loyalty behind it, even if it’s inconvenient, Fenris says, “I understand.” Then, “He will have left instructions with the message. A code word to ensure that it be given only to me.”

At this, she softens. “All right, what is it?”

He replies, “Leto.”

The guards call for a messenger, who comes back after a time with a sealed envelope. She hands it to Fenris, nods, and leaves. His heart races as he breaks the seal.

There’s just one word written on the paper inside. The moment he reads it, a single disbelieving laugh escapes him.

Vyrantium. The city Fenris left just twelve days ago.

“Fasta vass,” he breathes, his head reeling.

“Got a long journey ahead?” the guardsman guesses.

“Apparently so,” says Fenris. The realization that he’s set to go back the way he came should be exhausting, but now he feels oddly light, less concerned than he thinks he’s been for the past couple of years. He has something now. Certainty, direction.

The guards exchange another look. The guardswoman says, “We can send for supplies, food and water for the road. Does your horse need to be shod?”

“No,” he says, taken aback by the sudden generosity. “Thank you.”

“Only right, seeing as you’re a friend of Hawke’s,” says the man.

Fenris lets out an involuntary huff. A friend of Hawke’s. He doesn’t know if he’s ever been just that, or if he ever could be.

They bring him supplies for the road and a hot meal to eat while someone feeds and waters Haddie at the stables. They don’t ask him who he is or why he’s looking for Hawke, but he can tell they want to. When the time comes for him to take his leave, he thanks them again and turns to go.

“Vitae benefaria,” the guardswoman calls, her pronunciation clumsy the way a foreigner’s or Soporati member’s might be.

He pauses mid-step. As always, it takes a moment for his alarm at the sound of Tevene to quiet. “You as well,” he replies, and goes.

It was not, Hawke insisted, out of hatred that he did this, nor did he mean to choose sides. It was only a precaution. Sensible, under the circumstances.

“You do not have to justify yourself to me,” Fenris said, watching him knock back the lyrium infusion.

Hawke sniffed, cleared his throat. His eyes had a sudden lucidity that hadn’t been there before, a sharpness. He made a face. “Ghastly stuff,” he muttered. As he packed the philter away, he said, “The city is crawling with blood mages these days.”

“It is,” Fenris agreed.

“I can understand why,” Hawke continued. “Tensions at the Gallows have only worsened over time. Between that and the Qunari sacking the keep, it’s no wonder people are so desperate.” Equipment all sorted away and box neatly shut, he leaned over his desk, gripped the edges of it, seeming lost in thought. “It must be an attractive prospect,” he said quietly, “that power.”

“Only for the weak-willed,” said Fenris.

“And the uncaring, yes.” Hawke sighed and straightened. “But enough about that. You said something about work?”

 “Yet another group of bandits on the coast,” said Fenris. “Unofficially, the city guard would like them removed.” So unofficially, in fact, that the guard-captain herself hadn’t had time to make the request, if she were even aware of the problem in the first place. Swamped with work, Donnic had said. Helping a city rebuild after the public execution of its leadership had that effect.

“I wonder if there isn’t some merit to Varric’s suggestion of posting signs that read Don’t,” said Hawke. “Shall we go now?”

Fenris nodded, and Hawke let out a sharp whistle. Without missing a beat, Calenhad came bounding up the stairs and into the study, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth as he panted eagerly.

“Up for a walk, boy?” Hawke asked.

Calenhad barked. The tiny stump of his tail wagged in its ridiculous way.

Before they set off for the Wounded Coast, they had to make stops around the city to see who else was available to come along. Dragging Sebastian out of the chantry was easy enough—he never had anything to do with his time but pray—but all the others seemed to have their hands tied. Aveline, of course, was working; Varric’s editor had imposed a strict deadline for the latest chapter of his crime serial; Isabela was nowhere to be found; Anders’s clinic had such a long line they couldn’t even get through to see him. Even Merrill claimed to be occupied with a project, but agreed, in the end, to join them if they needed her.

Hawke took the lead with Calenhad as he always did, Fenris and Merrill trailing just behind and Sebastian taking up the rear. They were quiet, the whole group, barely a word spoken among them as they scoured the sandy roads.

The silence was broken when Merrill asked, “Are these ordinary bandits, do you think, Fenris?”

He squinted at her. “As opposed to what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. A criminal organization, maybe? We have a few of those in Kirkwall. Or I suppose we don’t,” she added. “The humans do. And the dwarves. The Qunari.”

“Does it matter?” he grumbled.

“Not practically, no,” she said. There was more of a bounce in her step than in his. He didn’t know how she could be in good spirits when there was sand between her toes. “But I wonder sometimes about the people we kill.”

“While you aren’t a believer in Andraste, Merrill,” Sebastian called from behind them, “if you harbor guilt over the mortal sins we’ve committed, I would be happy to hear your confession.”

“It’s not guilt,” she said. “Why should I be guilty? They’re the ones who started it.”

“Still, murder is a grave offense in—”

She let out a loud chortle, then covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, was that not meant to be a joke? It was very funny, anyway.” Shooting Fenris a sidelong look, she giggled. “Grave offense. Oh, Elgar’nan.”

“If it’s not too much trouble, Merrill,” said Hawke, glancing back over his shoulder with just the smallest bit of exasperation, “I was hoping not to alert the bandits that we’re coming.”

“Ir abelas, lethallin,” she replied with a contrite grin.

The newfound silence didn’t last long. Softly this time, Merrill said, “Something’s different. About Hawke.”

“He was impaled by a large sword this month,” said Fenris.

“I don’t mean that.” A brief glance showed a frown pulling at her mouth, her brow. “He’s changed in some way, haven’t you noticed? He—I don’t mean to sound strange, but he smells different.” She looked to Fenris beseechingly. “What do you think it is?”

As far as Fenris knew, the only thing different about Hawke was his new title. And, of course, those newly-acquired powers of his. It was doubtful something like that would affect how a person smelled, though.

“Perhaps it’s the lyrium,” said Fenris, settling on the first guess he could come up with.

Merrill stumbled. She never stumbled out in the wilderness, only on flat, crowded streets, which she claimed were unnatural and not intuitive to walk on. Now, though, she teetered so precariously she would have fallen to the ground, if not for her hand shooting out and grabbing onto Fenris’s arm for support. Perplexed, he came to a stop and waited for her to right herself.

She looked up at him with round eyes that were full of alarm. “The what?” she asked breathlessly, but the sound of Calenhad barking and snarling cut off anything else she might have said.

The bandits were easy to take care of. Just ordinary, unspectacular thugs whose days of preying on the weak had come to a bloody end. But it was one problem fewer for Kirkwall’s guards to deal with, at least, so they could go home knowing they’d done their good deed for the day.

“Hawke,” said Merrill, approaching while he and Fenris moved the corpses into piles off the sides of the road. Sebastian had his head bowed in silent prayer. Fruitlessly, in Fenris’s opinion. “Could I have a word?” Her voice was shaking, pitched too high even for her.

“Of course,” said Hawke, continuing on with his task.

Merrill wavered, wringing her hands. “Could you not be lugging dead bodies around for just a moment?”

He raised his eyebrows at Fenris, asking a silent question, but Fenris could only shrug. “Sure,” said Hawke, and straightened as he set down one of the fallen bandits. “What is it?”

“I saw—” She chewed on her lip. “Are you a templar now?”

“What?” he said. “Of course not.”

“I only ask because I saw a flash of light just now that was a bit… templar-y,” she said. “And Fenris mentioned something about lyrium. And I suppose there’s been a bit of a lyrium smell on you lately, though it’s different from the distillations Anders takes sometimes.”

“I do take lyrium,” said Hawke, “but I’m not a templar, Merrill.”

Somehow, Fenris didn’t think he should be a part of this conversation. He ducked his head, pretended not to listen, and carried on with moving the bodies safely away from the path.

Merrill said, “I don’t understand. What’s the difference?”

“I haven’t taken any vows to serve the Chantry, and I don’t answer to Meredith,” said Hawke. “I get lyrium from our usual suppliers and use that to make my own infusions.”

“To fight mages,” Merrill said unsteadily.

“To keep people like that monster who killed my mother from doing the same to my friends,” said Hawke, a sudden bite in his voice.

“I’m sorry,” said Merrill, and sounded like it. “I should have realized.”

Hawke’s boots crunched on the sand-encrusted dirt as he walked toward Merrill. All his fury replaced by a patient gentleness, he said, “You have nothing to fear from me, Merrill. I’m just the same as I’ve always been.”

“I know. Thank you.”

There was a fragment of a lie in what had been said. Hawke was not the same. Hadn’t been the same since his mother died. For every blood mage they slew, something in Hawke frayed a bit more, wearing down gradually. If things continued as they had been, eventually there would be nothing left. Fenris knew because he’d lived it before: that cord of restraint unraveling, silent and unnoticeable, until, inevitably, it snapped.

Avoiding the Venatori entirely isn’t always possible. Two days south of Marnus Pell, he winds up killing a mage and their small retinue when they veer too close to his campsite. When the bloody business is done he searches the bodies for gold and jewelry, scavenges their food, lets their horses go. No slaves with them, at least. Small miracle.

He returns to Haddie, and she gives him a mild look that isn’t quite disapproving but certainly isn’t impressed, either. He doesn’t know when he started caring about the opinion of a horse. Regardless, he finds himself saying defensively, “The fewer of Corypheus’s supporters we allow to walk Thedas, the better.”

She looks away as though disgusted. No—that’s absurd, he realizes. She looks away because she’s a horse and something else has caught her attention, that’s all. Not because she understands what he’s saying well enough to pass judgment. And even if she could, he would hope she wouldn’t look down on him for murdering violent cultists. Not least because she’s only a horse.

“I’ve finally lost my mind,” he mutters.

In response, Haddie nudges his arm gently. He flinches and pulls back. A fireball had just barely grazed him, tearing through a section of his armor and leaving his skin flaming red and too tender to move. (He thinks back suddenly to Aveline, cheeks flushed whenever she drank. He wonders what she’s doing, what her life in Kirkwall is like, whether she and Donnic are safe and happy. Maybe they’ve started a family. Maybe they don’t have time for one. He wishes he knew.)

“I’ll be fine,” he says to Haddie when she makes a distressed sound. He pets her muzzle. “You should worry more about yourself. We have another long day ahead.”

Truthfully, he’s been pushing her too hard, trying to hasten the journey back east. Pushing himself, too, perhaps. That burn may have been avoided if he hadn’t rushed to engage the Venatori. Sooner or later he’ll need to slow down and give both of them the chance to rest. But not now, he decides. Not today. He applies a crude poultice to his wound, murmurs an apology to Haddie, and sets off.

Hours pass unspectacularly. Late in the afternoon, something catches Fenris’s eye on the horizon, just over the hills. A large something. A flying something. Dragons really have returned to the north, he thinks, eyeing it warily for a moment before altering his course just a bit. He wonders how long it will be until the beasts move from the plains and mountains into the towns. For one fanciful moment he imagines that will be what turns the tide in the war against the Qunari: an infestation of dragons from the west of the Imperium, storming Minrathous in tandem with a fleet of Qunari dreadnoughts.

Just as fancifully, he imagines Hawke spotting the dragon and marveling, lighting up with sudden childlike enthusiasm. He would charge straight in its direction, not away from it, and launch into battle the moment it came to greet him. He’d let out a gleeful, almost animalistic shout as he lunged at the dragon, just as he had at the Bone Pit years ago. And Fenris would be right behind him, followed by Aveline or Isabela or both, with Varric and Sebastian covering them from a distance. They would all fight it and win. Then Varric would grumble about the growing heat of the Tevinter countryside in the spring, and Isabela would muse about how much they could sell the horns for on the black market, and Hawke would fall over himself trying to dislodge his axe from the dragon’s skull.

Fenris misses them, he realizes. Not just Hawke, but everyone—maybe even, to a much lesser extent, the mages who are gone. He knows the bitterness he’s held up to this point hasn’t just been over Hawke leaving. It’s about the uselessly succinct letter from Varric being the first he’s heard from any of them in almost two years, and the fact that no one has tried to find him, to ask him for his help or his company or anything whatsoever. Everything he knows he’s had to gather from whispers at disreputable taverns and between loose-lipped dockhands.

Kirkwall is not his home, just as it hadn’t been Hawke’s. But he’d thought—perhaps mistakenly—that he found one in the people he met there. Now he isn’t sure. He’s been roaming a hateful landscape all on his own, belonging nowhere, existing purely as a terror and fading to nothing in the between times, whenever he isn’t being observed, reviled. Two years, and he realizes only in this moment that he doesn’t know how to be alone. Or he does, but only in the way that a person knows how to set themselves on fire: excruciatingly, and at great cost.

From across the valley, the echo of the dragon’s roar carries, thundering. Then, seconds later, from some unseen place, another call answers, and the creature disappears in search of it. Gone to find her lover, or to defend her territory, or die. It doesn’t make a difference to Fenris which.

When they’d first reached Tantervale, Hawke stopped in his tracks and just watched as the sun broke through a blanket of clouds. He said in an undertone, “I’ve written to Aveline and asked that she take Bethany somewhere safe.”

“Safe?” Fenris said, skeptical. Soon, nowhere would be safe for a Circle mage. The chaos that had started in Kirkwall was spreading, now reaching as far as Orlais, Rivain.

“Out of the Free Marches,” said Hawke. “I have a contact in the Wardens who says something is happening in the Order. I’d rather she were… well. Somewhere with fewer Wardens, at least.” His brow furrowed. “I fear we’ve a lot more to watch out for than mages and templars.”

It was the first Fenris had heard of this contact, or of troubling developments among the Grey Wardens. He mirrored Hawke’s frown. “What have you heard?”

Hawke tore his gaze from the sky and gave Fenris a smile that wasn’t half as convincing as he seemed to think it was. “Nothing urgent,” he said. “Just paranoia on mine and my contact’s part, most likely. I’ll tell you about it if it turns out to be important.”

He didn’t, ultimately. His departure in Hasmal was rushed and messy, and what little explanation he gave didn’t clarify anything. If Hawke had stuck around for just a bit longer, Fenris would have asked him what he thought he owed the Wardens, why he bothered involving himself with their business to begin with. Had the Blight scarred him so horribly he’d dedicate his life to preventing another? Or did he still remember so vividly the moment when he slid a blade right into Anders’s back that he felt, somehow, that he owed them something in penance?

Fenris, puzzling over this agitatedly in an empty room at an inn, was struck inexplicably by a memory: Malcolm Hawke’s blood, a prison of stone, You owe fealty to any magister of Tevinter. A different sort of debt, perhaps.

(He remembered, too, a haze of fury coming over him once they’d defeated the magister. He’d reached for the nearest weapon, found Hawke’s large, cumbersome axe, and hacked at the monster again and again and again, imagining it was Danarius, Hadriana, his sister, then reminded himself it was the malformed thing that had sneered and called him rattus. He kept going until Hawke said his name just once in a quiet plea, and the fog lifted as quickly as it had settled over him in the first place.)

Whatever it was, Fenris decided—this thing between Hawke and the Wardens—it was baseless, founded on lies and misplaced guilt. He didn’t owe them anything, just as he didn’t owe Kirkwall anything. Just as he didn’t owe Fenris—

Oh.

He does not find Hawke in Vyrantium. He finds him just outside the city, spying on a Venatori camp from up on a bluff, and does it only by coincidence, as Fenris had meant to survey that same camp from that same bluff.

“Oh,” says Hawke, clearly surprised. “Hello.”

There are a hundred things Fenris could say in reply, but he just bites his tongue and shakes his head. “How many?” he asks, settling beside Hawke.

“Thirteen, by my count,” says Hawke. “Four mages, three archers, six infantrymen, two of them holding shields. Not the worst I’ve seen.” There’s a but hanging in the air. It’s obvious from the grim line of his mouth.

“Slaves?” asks Fenris.

“Five.”

Fenris swears under his breath. If it were just the Venatori, they would pick off the marksmen in seconds, then dispatch the mages before cleaning up the foot soldiers. It would be messy work, but they could manage it. The slaves, though, could be used as hostages, or else blood sacrifices to empower the mages’ spells. The only way to ensure their survival would be to incapacitate the spellbinders first, if they even could. It’s almost too great a risk to contemplate. But the alternative—walking away and leaving these people to their fate—is worse.

Seeming to read his mind, Hawke says, “I can nullify their magic. As long as we draw the soldiers away from the slaves, we should be able to handle it.”

It’s the only strategy that has a chance of working, but it hinges on Hawke running straight into the thick of things with little or no cover. “You’re certain?” Fenris asks, thinking selfishly that he can’t let Hawke go when he’s only just found him again. Too much has been left unsaid.

“Don’t worry about me,” says Hawke, infuriatingly nonchalant. “I learned a new trick while I was with the Inquisition.”

That trick, Fenris comes to learn, is a holy smite followed immediately by a spell purge, which doesn’t nullify the mages’ spells so much as kill them outright. The finer mechanics of it are lost on him as Hawke babbles about it, but Fenris hums noncommittally anyway, searching the Venatori corpses for a key to the shackles.

“Are you the Blue Wraith?” one slave asks Fenris in a hushed tone as he passes by.

This again. One of these days, he’d like to find out who gave him that name. Reluctantly, he pauses and says, “Yes.”

“There’s a human with you,” she says, wary.

“A templar,” says Fenris, feeling Hawke frown at him in reply. Real templars take oaths, Hawke always said. All he’s ever taken is lyrium. “He’s killed his share of slavers as well,” Fenris adds.

“Good,” she says.

The process of freeing the slaves and steering them toward the nearest safe haven is so routine that Fenris forgets, just for a moment, that Hawke is even there. He’s reminded when he’s watching them go and hears just behind him, “You changed your hair.”

Their first real moment alone after two years of separation, and that’s what he says. Fenris snorts. “And you grew a beard again.”

“Well, you weren’t around to complain about it making you itch, so I got lazy,” says Hawke. “I’ll shave it as soon as we’re back in town.”

He lays a hand on Fenris’s shoulder. The touch is both so familiar and so alien at once it makes Fenris flinch bodily, and Hawke draws back, a chain of reactions that ends, as so many of them do, with something unpleasant settling in the pit of Fenris’s stomach.

“Sorry,” says Hawke. “Wasn’t thinking.”

“We should go,” says Fenris, already making to leave the campsite, refusing to turn and see the expression on Hawke’s face. “Did you ride here?”

“You didn’t see my horse? She was tied not far from the spot where you found me.”

Flustered, Fenris mumbles, “I was a bit distracted.”

“Mm.” After a pause, Hawke says, “You’ll laugh when you hear what I named her.”

“Oh?”

“Lenny,” says Hawke, “after my dog.”

Fenris nearly trips over his feet, but does not laugh. He hesitates, opens his mouth, hesitates again. There’s another stretch of silence before he says, “Haddie.”

“Sorry?”

“My horse,” says Fenris, and stops midway up the slope of the green hill that’s lush with grass and weeds. His heart is pounding, his eyes burning, and isn’t entirely sure why this, of all things, has torn a hole inside of him. “Her name is Haddie.”

“Oh,” Hawke says in a tone of gentle surprise, then falls silent.

They remain like that for a time, frozen, and then Fenris starts walking again, Hawke following close behind. They retrieve their horses and ride for the city, not saying a word.

The day after the chantry explosion, Kirkwall was in shambles, parts of the city still ablaze while others had been reduced to rubble. The city guard had been tasked with searching through ruined buildings for survivors, or else collecting the bodies of the fallen. The only ones they wouldn’t touch were the abominations, the blood mages, which the templars piled gracelessly on top of each other and burned in tall pyres that spread an odor of decay and burning flesh through the streets.

Fenris spent the morning helping Aveline and her men. It was tiring work, carrying bodies and clearing debris, but he was too on edge to relax. Needed to run himself ragged before he could even think of stopping. After some hours of this they dragged him over to the alienage, because he was the only one who could help there without making things worse—and maybe that was true, even if he didn’t feel qualified for it. When it came down to it, no one in the guard had his ears, and there was nothing to be done about that. So he fought through his exhaustion and forced himself to be patient as he questioned terrified families, identified bodies, and delivered condolences one at a time. All the while, the little house that belonged to Merrill watched him move to and fro, casting its silent judgment.

Afternoon arrived, and Aveline told him to go home, in a tone of resignation that said she would not be doing the same. He didn’t waste time arguing, just nodded and made his way back to Hightown in a state of silent delirium, covered in ash and dirt and blood that was not his own. He felt unclean, though not because of the grime. How many of these deaths could have been prevented, he wondered, if he’d had the courage to kill Anders sooner? How much of it was his fault for underestimating their enemy? A number beyond counting, he knew. Too many to forgive easily.

There were templars standing in front of the door to the untouched Hawke estate. Without a word, they stepped aside to let him through. He grunted in lieu of thanks as he passed.

The entryway was empty, as was the sitting room. There was no crackling fire, no Bodahn or Sandal by the hearth, and with all the curtains firmly shut it was as dark and soundless as night. Orana and the dog were both probably asleep, if he had to guess. He trudged along deeper into the manor and up the stairs, stopping just outside the master bedroom. He raised his hand, waited several long seconds, and knocked twice on the door.

“Come in,” he heard Hawke call from the other side. At that, he opened the door and entered.

It was dark in the bedroom, too, a single candle burning low on its wick at the bedside. Hawke was sitting on the floor in his underclothes, cleaning the pieces of his armor with a filthy rag.

“You’re alone?” Fenris asked, peering around the room.

“Orana’s scared out of her wits,” said Hawke. “I told Cal to stay with her.”

Fenris hummed. He took his sword off his back and set it against the nearest wardrobe, rolled his stiff shoulders. He lowered himself down to the floor beside Hawke and tried not to lean against the man too heavily as he watched him go about the dull, menial task.

They sat in silence a while, until Hawke asked, “How is it out there?” The words were muted, reluctant.

“It’s chaos,” said Fenris. “They don’t even know yet how many have died.”

“Fuck.” Hawke stopped and just clutched the rag in his fist. “Fucking Anders,” he said, anguished.

“He’s paid for what he’s done, at least,” said Fenris.

“Has he?” asked Hawke. He looked down at his hand, frowning at it as though the dirty rag in its grasp were the knife he’d plunged between Anders’s ribs. “I made him a martyr. What good did that do for us, for the people he killed?”

“It avenged them,” said Fenris. “You couldn’t hope to do more than that for now.”

Hawke laughed humorlessly and sagged, hunching over like all the energy had left him at once. “The Champion of Kirkwall,” he murmured. “Can’t save a single person, but at least he can kill your killer.”

Not one to offer unwanted consolation, Fenris said, “I should have gotten rid of him earlier.”

“Yes,” said Hawke. “We should have.”

Fenris shook his head. “No. I know why you didn’t, Hawke.” He still remembered Bethany saying bashfully that Anders reminded her of their father, Malcolm. If there had been any truth to that, it explained a good deal, though he doubted Hawke would admit it either way. “But I should have. I knew what he was.”

“We both know the only thing stopping you was that I wouldn’t let you. The blame rests squarely on—”

“Whether you wanted me to do it or not,” Fenris cut in harshly, “I should have killed him. To protect you, and to spare you from doing it yourself.”

Hawke looked at him for a long moment in silence, an inscrutable expression on his haggard face. His hair was disheveled, his skin bruised and scarred, and the blood he’d smeared across his nose like warpaint had smudged in unsightly ways. Yet in spite of it all, his eyes still shone with their fierce radiance. He said firmly, “I will never ask you to dirty your hands so that I might say mine are clean. You are no one’s tool, Fenris, but you are especially not mine. Do you understand?”

“You would not have to ask,” said Fenris. Because he knew there was a difference between obedience and devotion. That was something he had learned in those years he’d spent trying to stay away. If he gave any part of himself to this man, it was done freely, happily, not out of fear or obligation or defeat. He would do these things because he adored him, and for no other reason. Someday, he would make Hawke understand that, too.

Sighing, Hawke turned away. The armor clanked noisily as he moved it all aside, metal scraping against metal. Then he stopped, slumped back until his shoulders hit a bedpost, sighed again, eyes fluttering closed. Fenris watched, waited.

“I don’t know where to go from here,” Hawke confessed. “The senior-most templars are already talking about putting me in charge. It scares the shit out of me.”

“We could leave,” said Fenris. He touched Hawke’s arm, curling fingers around the sleeve of his tunic delicately.

“Leave as the city struggles to recover from unthinkable devastation?” Hawke let out a disdainful huff. “Surely you don’t think that little of me.”

“You’re in no condition to help anyone as you are now,” said Fenris, not trying to be unkind, just honest. “What would you do if you stayed, Hawke?”

“Something,” said Hawke. “I don’t know. But I can’t force everyone else to clean up after my mistakes. Not while they’re grieving.”

“You are as well. You lost two friends last night.”

A long pause. “Yes,” Hawke said quietly. “And my sister.”

“Bethany is alive and well.”

“She’ll never forgive me. Please don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.”

There was nothing Fenris could say to that that would help. He said as much, and squeezed Hawke’s arm, mindful of his gauntlet.

“When my mother died,” said Hawke, “you said something similar. No point in filling the silence with empty talk.”

“Do you want me to say something anyway?” asked Fenris.

“No.” Hawke’s hand came to lay over Fenris’s. “Just take these off, they’re a nuisance.”

Fenris withdrew his hand and began to undo the clasps on one gauntlet. “Only those?” he asked, pausing to let the unspoken offer hang in the air.

“That depends,” said Hawke. “What answer will get you to sleep?”

“You should ask yourself that question.”

Without a word, Hawke took over and began to meticulously unfasten the pointed armor, freeing each hand in turn. After, he shifted around and undid Fenris’s belt. It was a slow process, but not a sensual one, just drawn out by weariness and shaking hands.

“Hawke,” said Fenris.

“Turn around so I can get your breastplate,” said Hawke. “You can’t go to bed in this nightmarish thing.”

Fenris complied. He asked, “Will you be joining me?”

“Soon. Eventually.”

“Hawke,” Fenris said again, stern this time. The plate was off, and he turned back around. Seeing the stubborn set of Hawke’s jaw, he grasped the front of the man’s shirt with a bare hand and peered into his eyes, unflinching. “I will not let you torture yourself. You are too good a man to deserve that.”

“Am I?” asked Hawke, and grimaced.

“I have seen the worst that men can be,” said Fenris, tightening his grip. “I’ve been subjected to their depravity. If there were a trace of evil inside you, Hawke, I would know it for what it was. There is none.”

“Sweet talker,” Hawke said weakly, the feeblest smile touching his lips before Fenris kissed him.

He tasted of salt and the sharp tang of lyrium, the latter causing energy to surge through Fenris’s body like a bolt of lightning the moment it hit his tongue. It was sudden and jarring, but not painful. The opposite, really; the smallest trace of foreign lyrium had a way of soothing the ache under Fenris’s skin, if only for a short time.

They parted long enough to stumble to their feet, though Fenris couldn’t say which of them had initiated the standing. Hawke started to pull him toward the bed, and Fenris began to follow, then went still. He walked back, knelt down by the small pile of his armor, retrieved one vambrace. Delicately as he could, he untied the dirty, frayed length of red ribbon, which had lost its little feather a long time ago, and let the armor fall carelessly back to the floor.

“Fenris?” Hawke called from the bedside, audibly confused.

After closing the distance between them once more, Fenris stood before him and held the ribbon up. “I said I wouldn’t take it off,” he told him, pressing it into Hawke’s open hand. “Tie it again.”

Back at the room Hawke’s renting in a part of town that’s too nice for Fenris not to wear a hood, Hawke does shave his beard, as promised. Without the scruff he looks boyishly handsome, a good bit younger than his thirty-five years. But it reveals his scars, too, some of which Fenris doesn’t even recognize.

“You’ve been reckless,” says Fenris, looking him over critically after he’s wiped the remaining soap from his face. “What happened to your chin?”

“Ah.” Hawke touches the jagged-looking mark and has the decency to look sheepish. “Varghest caught me by surprise. Nasty things. I was lucky Stroud took care of it before it could finish trying to eat my face.”

The name Stroud rings a bell. “That was your friend in the Wardens,” Fenris remembers, though he can’t put a face to the name.

Hawke’s face falls. “And a good one,” he says. “If not for him, I would have died alone in the Fade. The only reason I didn’t is that he volunteered to do it instead.”

“A brave man,” says Fenris.

“He was.”

Jaw clenched, Fenris says, “If you had died—” He cuts off, full of too many things to know which terrible emotion to latch onto.

“I didn’t,” says Hawke.

“But if you had, Hawke.”

“Then you would have kept doing your work here, or possibly gone off to Rivain like we’d planned, and had a tempestuous affair with Admiral Isabela of the Waking Sea. And I would smile down on both of you from the bosom of the Maker, and so on.” At Fenris’s scowl, he sighs. “I don’t know what you want me to say. If I had died, then I would be dead. But I’m not. That’s the end of the matter.”

“It is not,” Fenris spits. “You battled the Wardens of Orlais, as well as a legion of demons under the thrall of Corypheus.”

“Not single-handedly, but yes,” says Hawke.

“And you didn’t think to ask me if I would fight at your side?”

“I wouldn’t take you away from your work here. This was important to you, and from the sounds of it you’ve done well for—”

“Hawke.”

“Of course I didn’t ask you to come,” Hawke snaps. “Have you considered that the reason I left you, Fenris, was because I knew this business with the Wardens would be dangerous, and I didn’t want you caught up in it? Did you stop to think that the worst thing that could happen to me now—after losing my family, Lothering, Kirkwall, half my friends—would be to lose you?”

Fenris stares at him for a long moment, chest tight. He takes in Hawke’s wet, bloodshot eyes and heaving chest, the signs of aging on his face that Fenris somehow hadn’t noticed before, and he says, “You’re as selfish as ever.”

“Excuse me?”

“If you had died,” Fenris starts, then finally allows himself to complete the thought: “Every decent part of me would have died with you. In saving me, you would have ruined me.”

“You’re the most insufferably dramatic person I’ve ever met,” says Hawke. “Can I kiss you now, or are you still angry with me?”

“Yes,” Fenris says flatly.

Hawke huffs out a laugh, then presses his mouth to Fenris’s, pulling him close. He smells of soap and horses and exertion, and tastes of lyrium, metallic and sour. Familiar. Home, Fenris thinks, a sigh escaping him by accident.

“Why did you come here?” he murmurs against Hawke’s lips.

“Here where?” asks Hawke, kissing him again. “Vyrantium? It was closer than the other major cities.”

“Tevinter,” says Fenris.

Another laugh. “What sort of question is that?” Hawke asks, pulling away to grin at him. “I was looking for you.”

“Oh,” says Fenris, feeling abruptly stupid.

“There were rumors of a mage killer roaming the wilderness.” Hawke’s grin widens. “An elf with strange markings and a Sword of Mercy. I figured it probably wasn’t a coincidence. You don’t make yourself easy to track down, though.”

“I was looking for you, too,” says Fenris. “I left for Weisshaupt from here. We must have narrowly missed each other.”

“Must have. Odd. I followed the roads straight here, more or less. Had to kill a fair number of Venatori on the way for my trouble.”

Now it’s Fenris’s turn to laugh. He shakes his head. “Did you come across any dragons on the way?”

“No. I didn’t even know there were dragons in Tevinter.” Hawke seems to ponder this, thumb rubbing Fenris’s waist absently. In just the right spot, too, away from his markings. Still knows the shape of Fenris’s body after all this time, the details of it. It’s a little thing, but it matters. Out of nowhere, Hawke says, “The Inquisitor’s an accomplished dragon slayer, you know.”

“Mm.”

“You’d like her,” says Hawke. “She speaks her mind. Doesn’t have patience for petty squabbles or politicking. And she hates Orlais.”

“A sensible woman,” says Fenris.

“Bad news for Varric, though. Now there’s competition for the title of my favorite dwarf.”

Fenris doesn’t respond to the joke, knowing that Hawke is just talking to have something to say, because he’s always been a nervous rambler. He leans in, forehead pressed to Hawke’s temple, lips on his scarred jaw. He thinks this is the beginning of something. Varric would call it a new chapter. Maybe that’s it. After this, maybe he’ll begin again—and not, for once, because he’s running from something or someone. It’s as good a time as any. He has everything he needs right here.

“Never,” he breathes, “leave me like that again.”

“Never,” Hawke agrees. Then, “I don’t suppose you still have that stupid ribbon?”

Guiltily, Fenris says, “I lost it a year ago.”

“We’ll just have to replace it,” Hawke says with an exaggerated sigh. “Or maybe it’s time for a change. You could tie something to me this time. Blue, do you reckon?”

“Ridiculous,” Fenris mutters, and scrapes his teeth against Hawke’s jaw, making him shudder.

That night, Fenris lies awake, unused to the softness of a decent bed and freshly-cleaned sheets. He looks at Hawke, who’s washed in moonlight. More scars Fenris doesn’t recognize, but some, too, that he does. The frightening, gnarled line on his abdomen where the Arishok’s sword had pierced him is still there, proof that he survived an unsurvivable thing.

It won’t be easy, whatever comes next. It won’t be painless. Fenris knows this. But even with the future uncertain, the world bleak and perilous, there is still hope, he thinks now. Here, with Hawke—who is tired and broken, who is not perfect, who is still noble and kind and good in spite of all of this, in spite of his own darkness—there is hope. And that’s something. It’s more than he had yesterday. More than he had twelve years ago.

Fenris reaches out, rests his hand on the knotted scar tissue by Hawke’s navel, feels the ridges of it with his fingertips.

Hawke stirs. “Go to sleep,” he mumbles.

“Hawke,” Fenris says quietly.

The reply is a grunt, followed by a slurred and groggy, “What’s wrong?” Then Hawke yawns widely.

Fenris considers his words carefully. “All these years, I have never allowed myself to ask for anything,” he says. “I want to change that.”

“Mm.” Hawke turns his head to the side and fixes his bleary eyes on Fenris. “Ask, then.”

“I want you.”

Chuckling, Hawke moves to cover Fenris’s hand, still tracing that horrible scar, with his own. “Can I have a minute to wake up first?”

“Not like that,” says Fenris, and feels suddenly impatient, desperate in his need for Hawke to understand. “I want to have you. Your heart and your soul, all of it. Every part of you.”

More awake now, Hawke blinks at him, bemused. “I don’t know where you’ve been the past eight years, Fenris,” he says, “but I’m fairly certain I’ve already given you just that.”

“You have,” says Fenris. “But you offered it before I even knew I would want it. I am asking now.” He turns his hand over, grasps at Hawke’s fingers. “All of you,” he says firmly, “even the parts you do not want yourself.”

Hawke licks his lips. “All right,” he says. “Not the best gift, but it’s yours.”

Fenris nods, and finally closes his eyes, content.

“Can I ask for something in return?” Hawke murmurs.

Fenris hums.

“Give me a favor. A ribbon, a ring. A scar, if you’d like. Your teeth are certainly sharp enough.”

“Why?” asks Fenris. The favor, ultimately, had just been a declaration of intent. Sentimentality aside, it was only ever that. The same sort of reminder now doesn’t seem necessary.

“Because.” Hawke squeezes his hand. “I’ve never had a piece of you to carry with me. And if you’re going to claim all of me, it’s the least you can do.”

With a snort, Fenris squeezes back. “I’ll think of something tomorrow,” he says.

“Tomorrow, then.”