#so many people die in kirkwall no one even bats an eye anymore

[harlotofandraste]

imagine being a regular, poor kirkwall darktowner going about your day and then your doctor kills like 10 people right in front of you and no one even cares

[emerald-amidst-gold]

Ohh maybe 1, 2, 3, and 28? 👀

*takes a sip from my can of soda* Ahhh~! Caffeine for the soul~ >:3

But you know what's better for the soul? Questions! Curiosity! RAMBLING ABOUT CHILDREN! >:D Let's GOOOO!

1. What would your Warden generally think of your Hawke and your inquisitor?

Rylen: 

Now, I kind of see Elise eventually meeting or at least, reaching out to Rylen after the events in Kirkwall. After all, she’s an Amell, and so is Hawke. They’re literally the only family each other has (that’s not ‘found’ family, that is.). So, I think Elise would reach out through a letter or somehow manage a visit to her cousin and...connect. She would see him as inspiring; Rylen always manages a smile and a quip. However, if they were to spend more and more time interacting with each other, Elise would see that Hawke isn’t very well put together, especially after the Chantry explosion. She would question why Rylen chose the templars, why he executed Anders who was a like a brother to her, but eventually she would come to understand the whys. Elise would see it as no different as when she decided to spare Loghain at the Landsmeet; they did what they believed to be right and what would be best in that very moment. Both Rylen and Elise sacrificed their own happiness for the benefit of others, and were still blamed for future complications and there’s something comforting in a finding another who can relate. :3

Fane:

So, I actually have some later fic ideas for a confrontation between Elise and Fane (after Trespasser, kind of Pre-DA4 shenanas~), and suffice it to say, these two have similar ways of thinking, but their methods are entirely different. Fane is rash, prone to barreling head first into conflict without thinking about those around him. Elise is analytical, always assessing and placing the pieces in her head to make sure everyone comes out alive. This isn’t to say Fane doesn’t care about his comrades; he does. There’s countless, countless times he takes a blow for someone else without batting an eye or thinking that he could die. He just doesn’t plan; he acts. Fane can get lost in the moment of battle, in the heady scent of chaos and blood. Elise, at first meeting him, would see him as any typical warrior; eager for battle and a garden of death. But if they were to sit down and talk...I think she might find him endearing and fascinating. More or less she would think, ‘He’s so mature for someone so young. I mean, he’s twenty-four, but...he speaks as if he’s older. His speech is manicured, measured as if decided upon carefully. And his eyes...there’s pain, a deep, deep pain. Like some of the older Wardens, those just hearing the Calling. But also...hope? Conviction? Who are you, Inquisitor? What has the world done to you?’

2. What would your Hawke generally think of your warden and your Inquisitor?

Elise:

Rylen would probably have the same opinion of Elise as she does with him. They’re family, split apart due the misconceptions and fear, and my Hawke cherishes family. He lost everyone else he could rightly consider family. Fenris, Varric, Sebastian, Isabela, and Merrill are the only people he can call family now. (Anders and Aveline are complicated. I won’t go into that can of worms. For now~ >:3) He would definitely feel a level of guilt for what he had to do in Kirkwall with Anders, with the mages, with...everything, but Rylen just tries to make it through another day. If he and Elise started to interact I think it would be extremely beneficial to Rylen. Elise is patient, sometimes stern, and not afraid to lay all the facts out. Rylen would admire that since he’s had to go through life wearing a mask, a smile, a facade just to placate someone else. He would see Elise as another sister and his opinion of her would probably be along the lines of, ‘I won’t let another member of my family be torn from me. Father, Bethany, Carver...Mother.. I failed them. I won’t fail her. I won’t fail her. She’s bright and she keeps her head held high. Heh, now I see how she killed an Archdemon and lived to tell the tale. ...Bet the lightning has something to do with that, too.’

Fane: 

Rylen and Fane, in my head, actually hit it off from the get go. They’ve both had to take mantles of power, even though they never, never wanted to. Though, for different reasons, of course. But Rylen would find Fane inspiring and wholly capable of doing what must be done. He’d be kind of put off that most of his well thought out jokes and pokes would fall flat on Fane, but eventually, Rylen would see why that is. (Draconic nature withstanding.) Also, once my Hawke found out Fane is dragon?  OHHHH, BUDDY. There would be yelling and screeching and cries of, ‘WHY DO I KEEP MEETING DRAGONS, FENRIS?! FIRST THE WITCH, NOW THE INQUISITOR?! ..I’m done. I’m putting my daggers down and stealing away into the mountains. Varric, you wanna come with? I know you’re fed up with this shit, too! Don’t lie! DON’T. LIE.’

3. What would your Inquisitor generally think of your warden and your Hawke?

Elise:

Fane would probably think of Elise as...interesting. Not in a bad way. Just...interesting. Fane isn’t comfortable with Wardens after Adamant. He learns that he can hear the corruption inside of them and that terrifies him. And confuses him. And makes him go, ‘What the fuck am I? I don’t even know anymore. Why do I try?’ But, if he were to get over that and, like I said with Elise, talk? He would have another perspective of the men and women that had let fear take them by the throat. It wouldn’t change his feelings regarding the Wardens entirely, but one level mind, one open mind, is enough to make Fane tap into his nature and consider other sides of a very, very large cube.

‘She’s more...quiet than the others. Maybe because it’s just her? No...Loghain was still loud as fuck when it was just him, so why? Ugh, I’m so sick of these puzzles. At least she’s more stable, but I can see the pain in her eyes; green like mine, but missing the gold. Maybe the Taint is stronger than she thinks? Perhaps, but still she fights, still she claws her way towards something that may be impossible. ...Hmph. How typical. A similarity. This world continues to confound.’

Rylen:

Fane respects Rylen after spending some time to feel him out, know his cues, and piece together which is his actual face. Once that happens, Fane can move into respect with my Hawke. These two have a fairly similar moral compass; pragmatism regarding most decisions. Again, they both have been thrust into a position without asking for it, so that would be a stepping stone upon the bonding path. All in all, Fane’s general opinion of Rylen would be, ‘He’s worn that mask of smiles and bright, grey eyes for too long. It’s cracking at the edges, wearing down to mere mortar. Then again, I have my own mask. I’m in no position to judge and condemn, but...it’s worrying. Even the strongest wings can be torn and all that greets is the earth below. I hope your wings don’t falter, Champion. It would be disappointing for the world to lose someone who cares when those who should are content to point the finger towards anyone but themselves.’

28. What is their favourite location within their own game and what would be their favourite in each others?

Fane: The Emprise du Lion! Snowwwww! Coooold! Ice dragooooon! >:3 ...minus the red lyrium. *snorts* 

Origins: Hmm, I think Fane would like the Brecilian Forest. He enjoys forests as much as he enjoys the cold, the ice, and the snow. He likes the animals, even though he tries not to interfere with them, and he likes the quiet. No chattering, no demands. Only trees, leaves, and the occasional whistle of wind. Also, Fane likes to investigate ancient ruins. He’s not interested in the history, really. He just wants to see if he can find any remnants about his kin that the elves may have left behind. :3

DA2: Probably Sundermount since again, wilderness. Fane doesn’t do too well in crowded areas and Kirkwall would make his heart rate sky rocket. Not just because of the people, but because of the size. Those cramped streets of Lowtown would just make him...eugh. *shivers*

Elise: She adores Orzammar! Especially the Shaperate! The dwarves fascinate Elise since not many tomes in the Circle went into depth about them! :D And if we want to with Awakening areas, I would saaaay...Amaranthine. She’s always like towns and cities due to not being able to experience them until the Blight! :3

Inquisition: Elise would adore the Frostback Basin. Like, really enjoy it! All that flora and Avaar culture and wilderness? MMMM!

DA2: Definitely the Wounded Coast. Hands down. My daughter enjoys the sea so much. The salt in the air, the feel of sand, and the pretty, pretty shells and rolling waves? Every Circle mages’ wet dream. *waggles eyebrows*

Rylen: So, if we’re not talking like open world areas in the game, I would definitely say Rylen’s favorite place is the Hanged Man. The man needs a drink to deal with Kirkwall. Just saying. It’s also where he can just...be himself with the people who know him. 

Inquisition: Hinterlands. He’s a FERELDAN. He wants his MABARI to RUN in native land! He wants to...go home. ;3;

Origins: I like to think the Hawke family went all over Ferelden before settling in Lothering. I mean, they kind of do, but maybe for more than a few months at a time? So, Rylen would enjoy Denerim. He likes to go where people are, where life is. He likes crowds because he can blend into them and not be tracked down until he wants to be tracked down. ...My Hawke just wants to live in peace with his glowy elf husband and run a mabari ranch. Is that too much to ask, Bioware?! Let Hawke REST!

Woo! That was FUN! It really got me thinking, too! X3 Thank you so much, friend! <3

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: Good Intentions

Chapter 31 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) is up on AO3! 

The crew heads to frosty Emprise du Lion this week, and I asked my darling @lethendralis-paints do a BEAUTIFUL little painting of FenRynne staying warm, so I simply had to post the art and the chapter together!

Read on AO3 instead; ~9000 words.

Hawke shivered and rubbed her arms. “You know, I think I’ve been spoiled by Skyhold. It’s all lovely and warm there with the elven magic and all. It’s made me go soft.”

Fenris glanced at her as they picked their way through the destroyed village on the way to Suledin Keep. She did look exceptionally cold. 

“Would you care for my cloak?” he said.

She batted her eyelashes at him. “So chivalrous, you are,” she purred. “But no. I’ll just keep complaining. This way I’ll distract everyone else from how cold they are.” 

Varric chuckled. “Thanks, Hawke. That’s really helpful.”

“That’s me,” she chirped. “Always being as useful as possible.” She elbowed Dorian, who was trudging through the snow beside her. “How are you holding up, northern boy? Maybe you need Fenris’s cloak.”

“I would, if his cloak wasn’t such a marvelously mundane shade of murky green,” Dorian said. He shot Fenris a mocking pout. “What happened to your black one? It suited you far better. It would have suited me far better.”

Fenris didn’t bother to look at him. “This one is warmer. I prefer to choose my clothes for—” 

 “— function over form and so on, I know. More’s the pity.” Dorian shot him a sly look. “You know, if you had something tailored, it could be both attractive and functional…”

Fenris shot him a flat look. “Dorian. I don’t need tailoring. In fact, nobody needs tailoring.” 

Dorian laughed. “Tell that to Josephine the next time you have to go to an Orlesian function.”

Fenris gave Hawke a long-suffering look. “I thought this conversation about clothing and tailors would end with the wedding.”

“Apparently not,” she said cheerfully. “For what it’s worth, I think you look handsome in everything.”

Her smile was wide and wicked, and Fenris shot her a forbidding look. He knew exactly what she was about to say next. “Don’t,” he warned.

Heedless of his warning, she sidled up to him leaned in close to his ear. “I also think you look even more handsome in nothing at all,” she murmured.

He huffed and shook his head. “You are shameless.” 

“Of course I am,” she said. She twined her fingers with his. “Lucky for me that skin-to-skin contact is the best way to stay warm.”

Fenris shot her a chiding look. Her voice was quiet, but to her left, Dorian was smirking. “Later, Hawke,” he muttered.  

She chuckled. “I hope that’s a promise,” she whispered. She released him and strolled over to Blackwall instead. “Blackwall, are you all right? You’ve been terribly quiet since we raided the quarry.” 

He gave her a small smile. “I’m just fine.”

She looped her hand through his elbow. “Come now, I don’t buy that. You look like someone stole your favourite puppy.” 

He sighed. “I suppose I’ve just been thinking—”

“You? Thinking?” Dorian said archly. “Quick, someone send a raven to Skyhold so Maryden can write a ballad in honour of the occasion.”

Blackwall shot Dorian a venomous look, and Fenris and Varric exchanged a quick glance. Blackwall and Dorian had been sniping at each other on and off the whole time they’d been in Emprise du Lion. Fenris was growing rather weary of it, but he was biting his tongue, especially after Varric had pointed out — to Fenris’s chagrin — that he and Anders had carried on far worse during their seven years in Kirkwall. 

Hawke, on the other hand, had spent the trip trying to smooth things over with flirting and jokes. She seemed to have reached the end of her rope today, however. “All right, all right, you’re both manly men with giant weapons and beautiful facial hair,” she snapped. “Now please shut up.” She turned pointedly to Blackwall again. “Thinking about what?”  

“About the Templars, I suppose,” he said. “And the Grey Wardens. They were all just trying to do the right thing, and Corypheus used their morals against them.”

She grimaced. “I know. It’s a rather shit deal, isn’t it?” She patted his arm comfortingly. “We’ll stop Coryfish, though. He’ll get his comeuppance sooner than later.”

He shook his head sadly. “You make it sound easy. But how many more people will die before Corypheus does? How many more good people will be corrupted before we stop him?” He sighed. “It’s not right. To want to do good, to be good, and have that turned against you.”

They were all quiet for a moment. Then Varric chuckled. “Damn, hero. You’ve been having a real existential crisis over there, haven’t you?”

Hawke shot him a quick grin, then turned back to Blackwall. “You’re right. It sucks to try and do the right thing and have it blow up in your face. But what else can you do?” She shrugged. “You’ve got to trust your gut, right? Keep on moving forward. What other choice is there?”

���But how do you know you can trust your gut?” Blackwall asked. “Warden-Commander Clarel’s intentions were righteous. Her desire to protect was so great it led her astray. How do you know if your intentions are guiding you down the right path?” He looked askance at Fenris. “You’ve brought us this far. Everything you’ve done has led us to victory. How did you know that everything would go well?”

Fenris wearily rubbed his hair through his hood. He knew it shouldn’t surprise him that people thought he actually had a plan for taking Corypheus down, or that he was always in control of everything that happened. This was the way of so-called ‘heroes’, after all; most people never saw the uncertainty and the terrible choices and the sheer dumb fortune — or lack thereof — that conspired to result in any given outcome. It had been the same with Hawke back in Kirkwall; she won one duel with the Arishok, a terrible duel in which she’d almost died, and suddenly she had the reputation of being the only person who could keep the entire city safe.

A reputation that had nearly gotten her killed.

He looked at Blackwall. “I didn’t know that everything would go well,” he said bluntly. In his opinion, everything hadn’t gone well since the Inquisition had begun; they’d lost people at Haven, and they had lost many soldiers at Adamant, and he had left Carver behind in the Fade. “No one can know for certain that their course of action is right. It is as Hawke said; you must trust your instincts. And the instincts of the people you trust,” he added, with a glance at Hawke. “And you must move forward.” 

A memory of Carver’s determined face flashed across his mind. He breathed through the guilt, then looked at Blackwall again. “There is no point sitting stagnant in the regrets of what might have been if you’d made another choice. There is only forward,” he said. 

Blackwall’s expression was attentive but melancholy, and Fenris felt another little writhing of guilt in his gut. He’d ultimately told Stroud and the Wardens to remain at Weisshaupt until Corypheus was eliminated, and he knew Blackwall wasn’t pleased about the decision. Fenris had initially considered telling only the Warden mages to remain at Weisshaupt, but Hawke had immediately argued the idea, saying it was barely a step away from imprisoning them in a Circle and that it would send a terrible message about mages in general to the rest of Thedas. So Fenris had reluctantly agreed to isolate all the Wardens to Weisshaupt until further notice. 

It was a decision that Fenris was still not entirely comfortable with, particularly given the darkspawn presence that Harding had reported in the Storm Coast. But Fenris didn’t feel informed enough about the Warden’s secretive ways to be entirely comfortable with their joining the Inquisition, so this seemed the more prudent option for now. 

Hawke squeezed Blackwall’s arm. “Come on, Blackwall, you don’t need to worry. You’re one of the good ones. If you weren’t, Fenris would kick you out of Skyhold in a heartbeat.”

Blackwall heaved a heavy sigh, then nodded. “I hope so, my lady.” He winced and pulled a copper out his pocket, then handed it to her. “Sorry, Hawke.”

She smiled and pocketed the coin. “No harm done.”

Fenris looked at them in surprise. “What was that for?”

“Blackwall is giving me a copper every time he calls me ‘my lady’,” she said.

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “Dare I ask why?”

She rolled her eyes. “Because I’m not a fucking lady, obviously.” She smiled cheekily at Blackwall. “We’re breaking a bad habit one copper at a time.”

“I dunno, Hawke,” Varric said. “You did get the Amell name restored, so I think technically—” 

She groaned. “That was in Kirkwall. We’re not in Kirkwall anymore.”

“Yeah,” Varric said. “That’s true.”

She shot him a guilty look, then slung an arm around his neck. “Don’t you get mopey on me now. When Corytits is dead, maybe we can all go back to Kirkwall for a bit.”

He looked at her and Fenris in surprise. “You’d come back to Kirkwall? Seriously?”

Hawke and Fenris exchanged a nonplussed look. They’d somehow never discussed settling in Kirkwall when this war was over. In truth, Fenris had a hard time imagining them returning to a life in Kirkwall after everything that had happened there. 

“I… don’t know. Maybe?” Hawke said. She pulled a face at Fenris. 

He shrugged. “Perhaps. For a visit, at least.” 

“Mm. Yeah, a visit would be nice,” Varric said. He rubbed his nose. 

Hawke’s face crumpled, and she hugged Varric more tightly around the neck. “Oh, Varric, stop it,” she begged. “You’re going to make me cry.”

He cleared his throat and patted her arm. “Ah, come on, Hawke, don’t do that. Your tears will freeze on your face.”

She gave a shaky little laugh and kissed the top of his head, and Fenris watched them with an ache behind his sternum. He felt rather stupid now for not realizing that Varric had probably missed them — especially Hawke — during their two years in hiding. Hawke wasn’t the only one who considered their Kirkwall group to be family, after all. 

Varric looked up and met his eye, and Fenris grimaced and shrugged helplessly, uncertain what to say. They continued their trek toward Suledin Keep in an increasingly awkward silence. 

Thankfully — or perhaps not so thankfully — Dorian broke the silence. “I’m sorry, but is no one going to protest the fact that Hawke is essentially robbing Blackwall of his coin?” 

Blackwall raised his eyebrows. “Since when do you care about me getting robbed?”

“Since it means you have less coin for personal hygiene products, of course,” Dorian said disdainfully. He shot Hawke a pleading look. “At least use some of that coin to buy him some soap. Consider this a heartfelt plea.”

Blackwall grunted. “You know, some of us have better things to do than spend hours preening in front of the mirror like pompous prats.”

“That’s true,” Dorian said. “Like rolling around in the stables with the other hairy beasts. That is what you’ve been doing, yes? That’s certainly what it smells like.”

Blackwall scowled, but Hawke turned to Dorian before Blackwall could reply. “I didn’t hear you complaining about bodily smells when you were talking to Bull the other day.”

For a split second, Dorian’s eyes went wide — tellingly wide. Then he flicked some snow from his collar. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

Hawke cackled and skipped over to him. “You know exactly what I mean. And if you didn’t want anyone to know about you and Bull, maybe you shouldn’t have been talking about it so loudly right in the middle of the courtyard.” 

“Wait,” Blackwall said. He stared at Dorian. “You and Bull are canoodling?”

Dorian wrinkled his nose. “Canoodling? Oh, my. I didn’t realize you were a prissy octogenarian. Shall we buy you a cane during the next trip to Val Royeaux?” 

Blackwall grunted, but Varric grinned. “I don’t hear a denial there, Sparkler.”  

Hawke snickered and elbowed Dorian. “Me neither.”

“Vishante kaffas,” Dorian muttered. He shot them a resentful look. “For such a large castle, there’s certainly no privacy to be had at Skyhold.”

Hawke tutted and linked her arm with Dorian’s. “Oh come now, Dorian, we gossip about everyone. Why should you be exempt?”

“My dear Hawke, we gossip in private,” Dorian retorted. “If we’re talking publicly about everyone’s sex lives, let’s talk about yours and Fenris’s.”

“No,” Fenris said loudly. 

Hawke tutted again. “Fine, fine. You’ll dish in private, then? Later?” She gazed imploringly at Dorian. 

He rolled his eyes. “You really are an intractable pervert. I don’t know how Fenris copes with you.” He gave her a mocking look. “Should I draw diagrams for you? Would that be sufficiently entertaining?”

“Ooh, yes,” she said with relish. “I’ve been looking for some good reading material. I’ve run out of Randy Dowagers to read.”

“If you’re looking for something smutty, you can always ask Cassandra,” Varric said. “Maybe she’ll lend you the chapters I wrote her if you ask her really nicely.”

Hawke whipped around to look at him with wide eyes. “You wrote smut? Already? Aren’t you only about three chapters in?”

“Five, actually,” Varric said. “I found some time before we left Skyhold.” 

Hawke whistled and released Dorian’s arm. “Good on you. All right, you’ve got my attention. Tell me more.”

Varric and Hawke sank into a discussion of Varric’s writing, and Dorian breathed a soft sigh of relief. He and Fenris walked side-by-side in silence for some time.

“Is it serious?” Fenris said quietly.

Dorian groaned. “Oh, not you too. You’re as bad as your wife.”

Fenris shrugged. “Fair enough.” He said nothing more.

A minute later, Dorian spoke again, very quietly. “I don’t know what it is. It’s only happened twice.” There was a brief, pregnant pause. “All right, fine, three times.”

Fenris nodded an acknowledgment. “Are you happy when you’re together?”

Dorian shot Fenris an odd look, almost as though Fenris was trying to trick him. Then he scoffed. “I can just imagine the stories everyone will tell. The evil Vint magister and the big boorish qunari taking over Thedas one sordid sexcapade at a time. The rumours will be worse than the ones they were making up about you and me.”

It didn’t escape Fenris’s notice that Dorian hadn’t answered his question. “They don’t know you. Ignorant tongues speak nothing of value,” he told Dorian. “You know that.” He thought of Hawke and the way she’d always defiantly faced down anyone who disdained her for mating with a knife-ear. 

“Ah, Fenris. So innocent about the weight of a good rumour,” Dorian said playfully. “Or a bad rumour, I should say. I do enjoy your naiveté in this, it’s one of your most endearing traits.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “Do not mistake my words for naiveté. I know whose opinion matters and whose doesn’t. Do you?”

Dorian raised an eyebrow, then looked away. They walked in silence for another minute. Then Dorian shrugged and smirked. “Maybe I am happy. Or maybe I’m entirely mad. Happiness and madness can be so difficult to distinguish, can’t they? They’re both accompanied by such a lovely little state of euphoria.”

He was deflecting, exactly as Hawke did when she was disturbed by something. Fenris glanced at him, then reluctantly switched to Tevene. “It is difficult,” he said. “Liking someone that you thought you should hate on principle.”

Dorian raised his eyebrows at the language change, then chuckled. “Charming though these overtures may be, you don’t have to butter me up. We’re already friends.”

Fenris gave him a serious look. Finally, at long last, Dorian’s shit-eating smile slowly faded. 

“You don’t think this is just a foolish lark, then?” he said. “Dorian Pavus going off and pulling another shameless act of debauchery?”

Fenris gazed at him in exasperation. “When have I ever accused you of debauchery? Arrogance, perhaps. Being smug, perhaps. Having overly coiffed hair—”

“I knew you liked something about me,” Dorian quipped.

Fenris ignored him. “Do you think it’s a foolish lark?”

“I don’t know,” Dorian snapped. He took a deep breath and started twisting one of his gold rings around his finger. “I… I don’t know. Maybe it’s not a lark. I haven’t… been with anyone since leaving home.”

Fenris shrugged. “For that reason alone, perhaps it is a good thing. A way to break from the chains that Tevinter society placed on you.”

They walked quietly for another minute. Then Fenris spoke again, this time in the common tongue. “I hope you can trust him. He is still a qunari spy.”

“Fasta vass. I knew you didn’t approve,” Dorian complained. 

Fenris frowned. “That is not what I said. And why do you care if I approve?”

Dorian stared at him in exasperation. “Do you even listen to a word out of your own perfectly pouty mouth?” He put on a mocking baritone voice. “‘Rely on the instincts of the people you trust. Know whose opinion matters.’ And then you go and ask why I care what you think.” He snorted and continued to fight his way through the knee-deep snow.

Fenris doggedly strode through the snow beside him. “You want my opinion.”

“And finally the Inquisitor catches on,” Dorian said waspishly. 

Fenris bit back his irritation. “My opinion is this. You should trust your own instincts. I am not your father,” he said severely. “I am not going to place judgement on whom you lie with. Just be careful.” 

Dorian pressed his lips together and didn’t speak. After a moment of tense silence, he sighed. “Thank you. I… I appreciate your concern. Truly.”

Fenris shrugged and didn’t look at him. “Thank me by not drawing diagrams for Hawke. I do not want to see them tacked on the wall of our bedroom.”

Dorian grinned at him. “And why would she tack them on the wall of your bedroom, pray tell? Inspiration, perhaps?” He gasped playfully. “Are we about to gossip about your sex life after all?”

Fenris snorted in disgust. “I regret saying anything.” He turned on his heel and started to return to Hawke and Varric. 

“We’ll pick up this discussion later, then!” Dorian called after him. “Perhaps over tea and those little frilly cakes that Solas is so partial to.” 

Fenris ignored him. A moment later, however, the distinctive sounds of clashing swords reached his ears, followed by the distinctive roar of a rage demon. 

He whipped around to look. Suledin Keep was less than a hundred paces away, and a lone blond figure was valiantly fighting two red Templars and a handful of demons. 

 “Shit,” Hawke said. 

“That’s the chevalier guy,” Varric said. “Michel.”

“Let’s move,” Fenris snapped, and they bolted toward the entry to the Keep. 

A few minutes later, the red Templars were dead and the demons were scattered to the wind, and Fenris and their party were catching their breath along with the lone chevalier. 

“Herald,” he said. He bowed quickly to Fenris. “Your efforts at the quarry have not gone unnoticed. The demon Imshael sent a pack of shades to Sahrnia. I must go back and defend the villagers. Please, destroy Imshael before he escapes.” Without waiting for a response, Michel sheathed his sword and bolted away – but not before doing a quizzical double-take at Blackwall. 

Hawke raised an eyebrow at Michel’s departing back, then turned to Blackwall. “That was odd. Do you know him?” 

“No,” Blackwall said brusquely. He nodded toward the Keep. “Let’s stop this demon.” 

Fenris nodded agreement, and they began to make their way carefully through Suledin Keep. The fortress was enormous and the potential threat of enemy numbers was great, so they moved as silently as they could through the snow and stuck to corners and shadows to retain the element of surprise.  

The steady trickle of Templars they encountered were easy enough to ambush. But when they reached the cages containing the red lyrium-infested corpses of giants, they all took pause. 

“Maker’s balls,” Hawke breathed. She peered into the cage. “Poor bastards.”

“Poor them?” Dorian said archly. “Poor us, I say, if these mad Templars managed to tweak their red lyrium recipe properly.” He grimaced as he studied the grisly corpses.

Varric, meanwhile, was standing some distance away from the cages. “Careful, Hawke,” he said tensely. “Don’t get too close to that stuff.”

“It’s all right, Varric,” she said soothingly. “We all have our charms from Dagna. We’re safe.” 

“Not entirely safe,” Fenris reminded her. “It is still as toxic as regular lyrium.” He walked over to her and gently took her arm. “Come. Varric is right. We should move on.” 

They moved away from the cages and through another snow-encrusted arch, and Dorian wilted in dismay. “Kaffas. Of course.” 

Thirty paces away, a giant was stomping around and blocking the path ahead. Red crystals were sprouting from its shoulders and back, and there were three red Templars standing guard around it. 

They crowded back against the wall out of sight. “Fuck,” Hawke muttered. “How did they tame it? I thought giants were really wild.” 

“It’s a good question,” Dorian whispered. “You would think the red lyrium would render it wilder than usual.” 

Fenris shook his head. “Red lyrium sickens them. That’s what all the notes we found have said. Sicken them slightly to make them more compliant, while also making them stronger…”

Blackwall furrowed his brow. “That makes no sense.”

“Since when does any of this shit make sense?” Varric muttered. 

Fenris huffed in agreement. He could only hope the Inquisition’s mages would have more information on lyrium when they next returned to Skyhold. “In any case, we must move on.” He looked around at their little group. “We all know what to do.” 

They murmured assent, and Fenris quickly squeezed Hawke’s hand before leading her quietly toward the giant by skirting the sides of the castle walls. Once they were all in position, Fenris nodded to Hawke and Dorian. 

Two rings of flame erupted around the Templars and the giant, and the frozen air was rent with the sounds of anguished screams and angered roaring. The warm tingle of Hawke’s barrier settled over Fenris’s shoulders, and he bolted toward the Templars while Blackwall ran at the giant with a battle cry. 

The red Templars were dispatched without too much fuss; their combat style was relatively predictable, especially after studying their strategies while decimating their operations in the quarry, and it was a simple enough matter for Fenris and Varric to kill the Templars without further magical help. 

The giant, however, was another matter. After several long, gruelling minutes of combat, its flesh was crackling with burns and wet with blood from Fenris and Blackwall’s strikes, but it was still roaring and flailing its long arms as though it had hardly been harmed. 

“Damn, it’s strong,” Varric panted. He loaded three more bolts into his crossbow and scowled up at the enormous creature. “What are we supposed to do?” 

“Let’s hamstring it,” Blackwall shouted. “Get it on its knees, then bash its sorry head.”

“Try it,” Fenris yelled. It was as good a plan as any; sheer brute force was clearly not working. 

Unfortunately, before they could enact the plan, the giant grabbed an enormous boulder and lifted it overhead, then turned toward Hawke and Blackwall with a roar. 

Fenris’s stomach lurched in horror, and he bolted toward them. But just before the boulder came smashing down, Hawke thrust her hand toward the giant and clenched her fist. 

The giant froze, entrapped in a cage of blazing white light. “Got you,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Dorian, hamstring the fucking thing.”

Dorian swung his staff in a lashing motion, and a bladelike projectile of ice slashed through the backs of the giant’s thighs straight to the bone. 

Hawke lowered her hand, breaking the cage of light, and the giant fell to its knees with a shriek of agony. With a roar of battle rage, Fenris slammed his blade into the beast’s skull.

He and Blackwall hacked at the giant’s head and neck until it finally fell facefirst into the snow with a thundering crash. For a moment, they stood in shocked silence catching their breath and staring at the giant’s bleeding body.

Fenris trudged over to Hawke’s side, then unstrapped a bottle of lyrium solution from her belt and removed the cap. He silently handed her the bottle, and she took it with a nod and drank it down. 

She wiped her mouth and placed the empty bottle back on her belt, then smiled at him. “That was fun. Let’s never do that again, shall we?”

He managed a half-smile as he studied her face. Her lips were turning blue and her normally-golden skin was bleached from the cold, but she looked strong enough despite using her most mana-sapping spell. 

He forced himself to breathe normally. “And you said we never go anywhere fun,” he drawled. 

“I believe that was me,” Dorian put in. “And it’s true. You never bring me anywhere fun.” He adopted a mocking voice. “‘Oh, the coldest place in all of Thedas, where red lyrium crystals compete for territory with human-sized pillars of ice. You know who would adore such a place? Dorian.’” He disdainfully rearranged his dishevelled hair.

Fenris cast him an exasperated look as he helped Hawke to step over the giant’s body. “Do you want to come on these trips or not? It would not be difficult to leave you behind.” 

“Wouldn’t that be a relief,” Blackwall said acidly.

Dorian shot them an affronted look. “What, and deprive you of my scintillating insights and intelligent badinage? Perish the thought.” 

Varric chuckled weakly and patted Fenris’s elbow. “Come on, let’s get this party moving. This fortress doesn’t seem like it’s gonna clear itself, unfortunately.”

And so it was a weary party that continued the foray through the keep. They moved more cautiously than before, wary of conserving their energy and mana; Fenris was quite sure the showdown with the demon would be a significant trial, based on what Michel had told them back at Sahrnia when they’d first arrived in Emprise du Lion a few days ago. 

Unfortunately, the path through the enormous keep only became more populated with enemies, including one more giant and a number of large demons. By the time they had nearly reached the top of the tower, all of them were bloodied — albeit healed thanks to Hawke — and Hawke was down to her last lyrium potion. 

She blew out an angry breath and glared at the faintly steaming piles of ichor that had been a rage demon just a few minutes ago. “All right, I’ve had enough of this. Let’s kill this fucking Imshael thing already so I can find a hot bath.” 

She was shivering, and Fenris wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or exhaustion. He unclipped his cloak and draped it around her shoulders. 

She shook her head and tried to brush him off. “No, I don’t need it—” 

“It hinders my movement,” Fenris said. It was only a small lie; it did hinder him a bit, but that hardly mattered when he was able to skate along the edge of the Fade with his lyrium tattoos. “Keep it for me.” 

She frowned at him, then blew out a sharp breath. “All right. Fine. Let’s go, shall we?”

Fenris quashed a jolt of worry in his gut. If she was giving in so quickly, she must be more tired than she looked. 

They moved toward the door, and Fenris surreptitiously took her hand. “Stay far back,” he murmured to her. “Be cautious, Hawke.” 

“I know, I know,” she said. She squeezed his hand in turn. “No running in headfirst, I promise. I’ve got your back.”

He nodded and bit his tongue to stop himself from nagging her any further. Then Dorian appeared at her other side. 

“My gift to you,” he said, and he offered her a bottle of lyrium.

She frowned and pushed it back at him. “Dorian, come off of it. You need that.”

“You’ve been doing all the healing, if you didn’t notice,” Dorian said. “Take the bottle, please. It’s not very tasty, I know, but I can guarantee the next one I give you will be full of brandy.”

She rolled her eyes and took the small bottle from him. “Well, when you put it that way, how can I refuse?”

Fenris met Dorian’s eyes and nodded his thanks, and Dorian smiled faintly at him before stepping forward and pushing open the enormous double doors to the tower. 

The moment they stepped through the doors, a smug, smooth voice addressed them. “Ah, the hero arrives. Wearing the marks of the ancient warriors, no less. But is it hero, or murderer? It’s so hard to tell.”

The speaker was a man: a rather nondescript, middle-aged man wearing a fine black coat and fine black shoes with tidy silver buckles. 

Fenris narrowed his eyes. Imshael may have taken the form of a man, but his taunts reminded Fenris all too clearly of the Nightmare. 

“Demon,” he spat.

Imshael’s pleasant smile hardened. “Choice spirit,” he corrected. 

Hawke snorted. “Spirit, demon… either way, you’re a complete asshole.” She pulled her staff from her back. 

Imshael held up a finger. “Wait, wait!” he said. He looked at Fenris. “These are your friends? They’re very violent. It’s worrying.” He folded his hands behind his back. “True to my name, I will show you that you have a choice. It doesn’t always have to end in blood.”

“Not always, no,” Fenris said. “In this case, yes.” He unsheathed his greatsword.

Imshael’s smile twisted into a snarl. “Fine,” he said. “If you won’t be smart, be afraid.” He suddenly burst into a huge and hideous rage demon. 

Hawke’s barrier fell over Fenris’s shoulders, and it was more comforting than any cloak. Three of Varric’s bolts struck the demon’s face in quick succession, and then Fenris and Blackwall were hacking at the demon’s body with all their strength. 

As promised, Hawke stood back and maintained a steady barrier over all of them while they attacked the demon. Dorian coated the creature with ice, rendering it brittle for their sword and arrow strikes, and the poison from Varric’s arrows withered the demon’s lava-liked flesh. 

Just when Fenris was sure that Imshael was beaten, he let out an unpleasant cackle of a laugh, then transformed into the largest demon of pride that they’d ever seen.

“Maker’s balls,” Blackwall swore. Then he and Fenris dodged away from the lashing of Imshael’s lightning-laced whips. 

The fight continued for an improbably long time. Imshael continued taunting them and changing forms, and each form he took seemed to lose some portion of the damage they’d inflicted. 

The demon backhanded Blackwall across the face, sending him sprawling to the ground, then laughed again. “Where’s that Michel, hmm? Afraid of another disastrous blunder, so he sends you to do his dirty work? A clever choice, that. Maybe I underestimated him… hah. I do amuse myself sometimes.” Imshael chuckled unpleasantly, then snarled as Fenris cleaved straight through his left leg.

“Vishante kaffas,” Fenris spat. “I’ll paint these stones with your vile blood, demon.”

“Choice. Spirit,” Imshael hissed. “Allow me offer you another one.” He phased across the ichor-and-ice-spattered ground, then grabbed Hawke by the throat and hauled her off her feet.

“Hawke!” Varric shouted.  

“Release her!” Fenris roared. Hawke was gripping Imshael’s scaly arm for support, and Fenris’s heart was beating a panicked staccato in his ears. 

“Gladly,” Imshael said. “If you give me the anchor on your hand.”

Imshael knew how to remove the mark? For an instant, the shock rendered Fenris breathless.

He took a step toward Hawke, then stopped when Imshael squeezed Hawke’s throat more tightly. “Ah-ah-ah. You have to make a choice. Either you give me the anchor, or she dies.”

Hawke was staring at him with wide eyes. Her face was going red, and her kicking was growing weaker. 

“Fine,” Fenris blurted. “The anchor is yours. It is a curse. I never wanted it.” 

Dorian and Blackwall exclaimed in surprise, and Imshael’s monstrous face twisted into a grin. “And the hero throws aside his purpose!” he crowed. “How disappointing. For your friends there, I mean.” He held out one grotesquely clawed hand. “Now let’s have a look at that pretty palm of yours.”

Fenris approached the demon, his eyes fixed on Hawke’s reddening face. 

“Wait a minute,” Dorian protested. “Imshael, let’s — let’s talk about this. What other options—”

“Too late, Tevinter princeling,” Imshael said. “The grand Inquisitor has made his choice.” 

Fenris ignored them. When he was within reach of the demon, he held out his crackling left hand.

Imshael chuckled — an evil, guttural sound. Just as Imshael was about to touch his hand, Fenris nodded surreptitiously to Hawke. 

She twisted her fist in a wrenching motion. A blazing cage of white light appeared around the demon, making him scream with rage, and Hawke fell to a heap on the ground.

Her right hand was outstretched to maintain the cage. She looked up at Fenris with bloodshot eyes. “Do it,” she rasped. 

Without another moment’s hesitation, Fenris flung his snapping left palm at the cage of light, and an enormous burst of pure rift magic exploded from his palm and bloomed violently inside of the cage, encapsulating the demon completely. 

A horrendous, furious scream of pain and fury emanated from the cage. Fenris gritted his teeth and held the cloud of magic in place until the screaming died away, then clenched his fist shut and released his breath.

The demon was destroyed, nothing more than a breath of ash that was swiftly dissipating into the frigid wind. Fenris fell to his knees beside Hawke, who was hunched on the icy ground. 

Blackwall, Dorian and Varric ran over to join them, but Fenris ignored them. “Hawke,” he said. He rubbed her arms, then cupped her cold cheek in his trembling palm. “Rynne, look at me.” 

She lifted her face and smiled at him. She looked absolutely exhausted. “Hey, handsome. Are you a choice spirit? Because you take my breath away.” She laughed feebly, then broke into a hacking cough. 

Fenris pulled her into his arms and buried his face against her ear. “You are an idiot,” he whispered. 

She took a slow, rasping breath. “Only for you, Fenris,” she said. “Only for you.” 

He swallowed hard and tucked his cloak more securely around her body. Varric patted his shoulder. “That was some fast thinking, you guys. Nice work.”

“You knew they were going to do that?” Blackwall asked Varric in surprise. 

Varric shrugged. “Ah, I saw them staring at each other. They’ve got that sappy married couple’s mind-reading thing going on.” 

Fenris didn’t respond. Varric wasn’t completely wrong; Hawke’s gaze had darted to the snapping magic building in his left hand, so he’d figured out what she was thinking. But in that split second, that terrifying instant when Imshael had tightened his monstrous fingers around her throat…

Fenris would have given Imshael the anchor to free Hawke from his grasp. He would have done it. 

He pressed his face to her hair and inhaled her sandalwood scent. Then Varric patted his shoulder again. “Come on, we should get her somewhere warm. A tent and a few blankets at least.” 

Fenris nodded. “We’ll set up camp here,” he said. He glanced around at the blood-and-ichor-stained paving stones. “Not right here,” he corrected, “but somewhere close by. I don’t want to move her too far.”

“I’m fine, honestly,” Hawke said. She tried to push herself out of Fenris’s embrace. “I can walk. We can go back to the nearest Inquisition camp.”

Her voice was hoarse and weak. Fenris tightened his arms around her. “No,” he said. “We remain here until the morning.” He looked at Blackwall, who had a livid bruise swelling across his right cheek. “Find an Inquisition runner; let them know that Suledin Keep is ours. Have them send a healer.”

Hawke tutted. “Come on, Fenris, I don’t need a healer—” 

“Right away,” Blackwall said, and he marched away in the direction of the keep’s entrance. Varric and Dorian, meanwhile, had gone off to find a spot to set up for the night, leaving Fenris and Hawke alone. 

He carefully arranged the fur-lined hood of his cloak over her hair, and she gave him an exasperated look. “You don’t need to coddle me. Just give me some elfroot and I’ll be grand.”

“You are close to being overextended,” Fenris scolded. “Don’t take me for a fool. I know the signs by now. I will not take any chances with your life.” He pulled a bottle of lyrium potion from her pouch belt and handed it to her, then brushed her spiky bangs out of her eyes.

She reached up and took his hand. “Hey,” she said. “I’m fine. I’ve rubbed elbows with death way more closely than this—”

“Don’t,” he snapped. “Don’t talk like that.”

She raised her eyebrows, then feebly shifted in his arms so she was sitting up in his lap. “What’s going on? What’s the matter?”

He took two deep, slow breaths before answering her. “I… I was ready to give the mark to the demon,” he admitted. “I was ready to trade the mark for your life.” 

She gazed at him in silence for a moment. Then she stroked his neck with her cold fingers. “You didn’t, though. It didn’t come to that.”

“But I would have,” he said. He ran a hand through his hair. “I — the Inquisition — Hawke, I did not even consider it. It was the last thing on my mind—” 

She cupped his cheek in her palm. “You think I would have done differently?” she said. “Fenris, I… Maker fucking knows I would do the same for you.”

He swallowed hard. “What does that say about us?”

“What do you mean?” she said. Then she grinned. “Wait. Don’t tell me Blackwall’s existential crisis is rubbing off on you.”

He scoffed and rubbed his hair again. “Perhaps. He… they… there is no plan,” he said very quietly. “Even Varric thought that was planned. How we defeated Imshael. That was not planned.”

“No, it wasn’t,” she said. “But it was a little bit awesome, right? I mean, come on. We tricked a really powerful demon. Sorry, ‘choice spirit’.” She snickered mockingly, then shrugged. “Maybe we really can read each other’s minds.” 

Fenris gave her a chiding look. “I am being serious. They think… I am not what they think,” he said. “The Inquisitor should be someone who is committed to the Inquisition. Someone like Cassandra.”

Hawke shrugged. “I disagree,” she said. “It should be someone like you who has a life outside of the Inquisition. Someone who knows what it’s like to not be in the Inquisition and remembers what we’re even doing all this shitty fighting for.” She made a little face. “Can you imagine having no life beyond the Inquisition? It would be pretty fucking sad, I think.”

He idly ran his thumb over her knuckles. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he was just trying to find an excuse to shunt this responsibility off on someone else. 

Perhaps he just needed some rest. 

He sighed. “Come on, Hawke, let’s get you into a bedroll.” He carefully scooped her up and rose to his feet. 

She tutted, but draped her arms around his neck nevertheless. “You know, I really can walk, but you’re so dreamy that I’m not going to complain.”

He huffed. “That would make it a first for this trip.” 

She chuckled hoarsely. Then Varric called out to them. “Hey, you guys probably want to come over here.”

Fenris frowned slightly, then carried Hawke over to the most north-facing balcony of the keep where Varric and Dorian were standing over a half-dead red Templar.

Fenris raised his eyebrows and gently set Hawke on her feet. “Why have we not put him out of his misery?” he asked. 

Varric jerked his head at the Templar. “Just listen.”

The red Templar was muttering to himself. “A garden needs a gardener. Nurturing, gentle hands, directing the change,” he said hazily. “Not too fast, not too slow. Just right. Has to be just right.”

Hawke frowned. “He sounds like that note we found in the cellar here.” 

“A red lyrium gardener: how very macabre.” Dorian’s face was serious despite his flippant words. He looked at Fenris with a frown. “It makes sense, however. The red Templars we encountered here were far more cognizant than the first ones we encountered in Haven. Whatever the demon was doing here to slow the mental decay, it was working.” He eyed the dying red Templar with a mixture of pity and distaste. “Fortunate we stopped that Imshael fellow before they refined their technique any further.” 

Varric grunted. “Yeah. Every bit of red lyrium we get rid of is a good thing.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Hawke said. She gestured at the red Templar, who was still muttering to himself. “Are we going to end this poor sod’s suffering, then?”

“Yes,” Fenris said. He removed a short knife from his belt, then knelt and quickly slashed the Templar’s throat. A moment later, the man released a sigh of relief as he died. 

They stood silently for a moment. Then Fenris placed a hand at the centre of Hawke’s back. “Come. Let’s rest. We should be set out for Skyhold in the morning.” 

They returned to the spot that Dorian had magically cleared for their tents, and Dorian lit a fire with a wave of his hand while Varric and Fenris set up their tents. Hawke sat by the fire and began unpacking some simple camping rations. 

“So let me get this straight,” she said as she handed Dorian a piece of oat bread. “Dwarves mine regular lyrium from the deep roads, but red lyrium just… grows bloody everywhere on everyone and everything?”

“Red lyrium came from the Deep Roads too, though,” Varric said. “I mean, who knows who made the idol, but we got it from the Deep Roads.” He sighed.

Hawke frowned sympathetically at him. “The idol can’t have been the only piece of red lyrium,” she reasoned. “It’s not where Corypheus got his stock from, because the idol’s still in Kirkwall with creepy statue Meredith, right? He must have gotten his red lyrium from somewhere else. Before he started farming it, at least.” 

Fenris knew why she was saying this to Varric: Varric felt guilty about the role that red lyrium was playing in their current troubles, even though Bartrand had been the one to spearhead their journey to the Deep Roads all those years ago, not to mention who had brought the idol into Kirkwall in the first place.

Varric wryly raised one eyebrow. “That’s not exactly comforting. To think there’s a vein of red lyrium somewhere that Corypheus is mining?”

Dorian stroked his mustache slowly. “Why grow it if they can mine it, though?”

“Growing is way more efficient,” Varric said darkly. “I mean, think about it. Who’d want to go mining in the Deep Roads when you can just harvest it from people’s bodies?”

Hawke and Dorian grimaced. “Such a charming thought,” Dorian said. “I may vomit.” 

Fenris and Varric joined them at the fire, and Fenris handed Hawke a vial of elfroot potion. “It puzzles me that red lyrium can grow in the first place,” he said. “It’s a mineral that must be mined. How is it possible that it grows?”

Hawke sipped her elfroot. “That’s true,” she said slowly. “Minerals crystallize. So maybe it’s just a form of… exaggerated crystallization?” She grimaced doubtfully. 

Varric and Fenris shrugged. Then Dorian spoke up. “Well, we keep saying people are infected with red lyrium. Maybe that’s really what it is: an infection. A parasite.”

“A parasitic mineral?” Hawke said. 

Varric sighed. “As if shit wasn’t weird enough already.” 

Fenris twisted his lips ruefully. He had to agree with Varric. It was hard enough trying to fathom the nature of regular lyrium without the red kind making matters more complicated.

He stared moodily at the white lines on his palm. For years he’d thought himself cursed by the tattoos that twisted and twined around his limbs. He’d become a bit more comfortable with the lyrium marks over the past few years, but with all these disturbing new questions, combined with what Solas had said about his erstwhile magic being held captive in the lyrium lines that marred his skin… 

He glared at the livid white lines on his palm. Then Hawke gently placed a piece of oat bread in his open hand. 

He looked up at her, and she smiled. “Eat,” she said softly. “I’m not the only one who’s tired after all that fighting.” 

He closed his fingers over the bread and nodded. She handed some bread to Varric too, then took a bite of her own bread. “I don’t know about you fellows, but I could eat an entire pot of stew right about now.” 

“Mm,” Varric agreed through a mouthful of bread. “Don’t remind me. I’d even eat the stew they made at the Hanged Man as long as it was hot.” 

Fenris snorted. “You’re fooling no one with that remark. We know you enjoyed the Hanged Man’s mystery stew.” He took a small bite of his bread.

“‘Tolerating until your taste buds go numb’ isn’t the same as ‘enjoying’,” Varric drawled. “Either way, I’d eat it.” 

“I have to agree,” Dorian said. “Anything as long as it was hot. Kaffas, I would even drink mulled wine right now.”

Varric raised his eyebrows. “You don’t like mulled wine? I thought you Tevinters loved your wine.”

“Oh, do we ever,” Dorian said with relish. “Hence why those with discerning tastes—” 

“Privileged tastes,” Fenris put in.

“–don’t drink mulled wine,” Dorian finished while blithely ignoring him. “I can’t quite fathom the logic behind mulled wine. ‘Ah yes, let’s take every bottle of wine in a ten-metre radius and dump it in a pot with a box of random spices. How delicious!’” He shuddered dramatically. “It’s truly one of the most ghastly discoveries I’ve made in the south.”

Fenris scoffed and took another bite of bread. Dorian raised his eyebrows. “Oh, don’t even try and pretend you enjoy mulled wine.”

Fenris swallowed his bread. “No,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean–”

Dorian laughed loudly. “Ah, be careful, my friend. Your true colours are showing.” 

Fenris huffed. “I don’t like it, but I would still drink it.”

“So would I,” Dorian said archly. “That’s the point. Desperate times, desperate drinks.” He raised an eyebrow. “Speaking of which, did none of us bring any alcohol? How terribly remiss.”

Hawke pointed accusingly at him. “You promised me a bottle of brandy. I intend to collect on that promise.” 

“Yes, all right,” Dorian said patiently. “The moment we return to Skyhold, I will positively drown you in brandy.”

Hawke grinned, and Fenris shook his head in dismay. “Don’t encourage her.”

“I’m tempted to encourage her just to watch her run you ragged,” Dorian teased.

Hawke and Varric chuckled, and Fenris ruefully shook his head, and for a time they sat by the fire simply chatting and eating their bread. Hawke leaned companionably into Fenris’s arm, then eventually rested her cheek against his shoulder. When she fell quiet, listening and laughing instead of making her usual cheeky remarks, Fenris patted her knee. 

“Come,” he said. “Let’s get some sleep.” 

She nodded, and they bade Varric and Dorian a good night and walked over to their tent. 

Hawke crouched and peered into the tent, then grimaced. “Ugh, it’s so fucking cold. Hang on out here for a moment.” She crawled into the tent and tucked the flap shut. A second later, a dim orange glow filtered through the cracks in the tent flap. 

Fenris waited patiently as she shuffled around in the tent. A few minutes later, she called out in a muffled voice. “All right, come in. Quickly!”

He knelt and crawled into the tent. The inside of the tent was tangibly warmer than outside thanks to a tiny glowing fireball hovering near the top of the tent. Hawke was already bundled in their bedding, tucked in so securely he could barely see her face. 

A burst of fondness filled his chest. He began pulling off his armour. “You’re certain this flame doesn’t draw too much energy?”

“It’s fine,” she said. “I’ll put it out once you get in here with me.”

Her tone was playful, and Fenris noted with relief that her voice only sounded mildly raspy now — thanks to the elfroot, no doubt. He stripped down to his fur-lined leggings and thermal shirt, then slipped under the covers. 

Predictably, she was naked aside from her smallclothes, and she pressed herself against his chest the moment he slid beneath the bedding. “Hey,” she complained. “You promised me skin-to-skin.”

“I didn’t, in fact,” he replied. “You were the one–” He broke off and grabbed her hands as she tried to slip them beneath his shirt, then relaxed when he realized he hands weren’t freezing.

She laughed softly and curled her arm around his waist. “I wouldn’t stick my cold hands inside your shirt. I’m not that much of a bitch.”

“You stuck your frozen fingers inside my collar the first day we got here,” he reminded her.

She laughed again. “Shit. I guess I am a bitch then.” She snuggled as close to him as possible and tucked her head beneath his chin. “Please get naked with me. I’m still cold.”

He scoffed as she tucked one knee between his legs. “You never stop, do you?”

She shook her head. “Never,” she said. “There’s no such thing as being too close to you.” 

A thread of tenderness squeezed his heart. Carefully so as not to disturb her too much, he pulled his shirt off, then shuffled his leggings off with some difficulty. 

Hawke helped him with the leggings, then chivvied him into lying on his back and draped herself across his body. “Better,” she whispered. 

He smiled and idly ran his hand along her arm. “Yes, it is.”

She hummed happily in response. Less than a minute later, her breathing evened out into the slow and easy cadence of sleep, and the tiny fireball at the top of the tent winked out of existence.

Fenris let out a long sigh. The inside of the tent was dark aside from the dim glow of the fire where Varric, Dorian, and a returned Blackwall were sitting, and the indistinct murmuring of their voices was oddly soothing. Despite the intensity of their activity today, however, Fenris didn’t really feel tired. 

He ran his palm in a careful path from Hawke’s bare shoulder to her wrist and back, and he thought about Blackwall’s words from earlier today: how the intention to protect had led Clarel astray. It was easy enough to judge Clarel after seeing the horrific blood magic rituals she’d perpetrated, but what Fenris had almost done today… 

To save Hawke’s life, he’d nearly made a deal with a demon. It was something he would never have imagined himself doing, but seeing Hawke so terribly threatened had driven everything else from his mind. 

Being willing to deal with demons in order to save Hawke’s life… what did that say about him? Hawke seemed to think it didn’t matter, since he hadn’t made a deal in the end. But intentions were important. Consequences were important, of course, but intentions were important too. Perhaps this meant he was no better than Merrill, with her pride demon and her cursed eluvian. 

Perhaps this meant he was no better than Anders.

He mentally recoiled from the thought the moment it crossed his mind. It is not the same, he thought. He wasn’t seeking knowledge or power like Merrill or Anders.  

But his motivation — to save one person at the expense of everything else — was still ultimately selfish.

Hawke shifted on his body. “This arm rubbing is nice and all, but you’re keeping me awake,” she mumbled.

“Ah,” he said. He relaxed his fingers. He hadn’t realized he was rubbing her arm quite that firmly. “I’m sorry.”

She pulled away from him slightly. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I’m well,” he murmured. He forced his hands to stay still on her body.

After a quiet moment, she spoke again. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He nibbled the inside of his cheek. “Later, perhaps,” he said. “Get some rest.”

“All right, if you’re sure.” She nestled her cheek against his chest once more, then yawned. “I love you.”

He swallowed hard. Hawke frequently told him she loved him, but tonight it brought a lump to his throat. 

“I love you,” he whispered. 

She hummed contentedly, and a minute later she was asleep again. 

Fenris closed his eyes and began to practice the same meditative breathing that he’d reminded Cullen to try. But even as he felt the muscles in his shoulders and his jaw loosening and relaxing, he continued to worry about intentions and consequences, and about himself and Hawke.

He and Hawke refused to be apart, and they had never hidden their willingness to protect each other at all cost. But for the first time, Fenris couldn’t help but worry how high that cost might be.