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Chapter Text

Winter had come to Skyhold. Cullen stood on the icy battlements, his cloak pulled tight around him as he looked out across the frozen valley. It was beautiful and forbidding, the dark rock of the surrounding mountains now almost obscured by a veil of white, the sky above pale grey and promising another storm. Almost at the same instant he thought it, the breeze picked up, bringing with it the first drifting snowflakes. Cullen shivered, and pulled the fur collar higher around his neck. There was no-one else in sight: Skyhold’s population had been much reduced with the defeat of Corypheus and the threat of a mountain winter, and those who remained at the fortress mostly had the sense to be indoors. But Cullen welcomed both the solitude and the cold. As the snow began to fall in earnest he took a deep breath of frigid air and closed his eyes.

His head and joints ached dully, an ever-present throb that would become less bearable as the day wore on. Time had eased the intensity of it, concentration could push it from his awareness, and enough elfroot could banish it entirely for a time… but it was never truly gone. The soft, thrumming power of lyrium pulsing through his body had been replaced with the endless ache of its absence.

He had expected that things would get easier with Corypheus’ defeat. When Inquisitor Lavellan had returned from the Temple of Sacred Ashes, triumphant, impossibly unscathed, the relief Cullen had felt wasn’t solely for the sake of Thedas’ safety; he had believed that, surely, more than one battle had been won for him on that day. If he could forego the lyrium during a war, with the heavy mantle of Commander on his shoulders, it would surely be easy in peacetime. But it was not so simple. There was less pressure, less relentless work, but that proved a double edged sword. With the world at stake, he’d barely had time to think; he had functioned because so much depended on it, even as his head pounded and his skin crawled with chills and he barely slept for fear of waking the soldiers in the tents around his with his nightmares. No matter how much he needed the relief of lyrium, the Inquisition needed him more. With the pressing threat gone, and too much time on his hands, it was harder to push away his body’s cravings. What would it matter, now? If he lost his mind, or his life, to the bliss of a blue philter – well, he had done his duty when it really mattered. And at least the fight would finally, truly, be over.

This was self-indulgence; he would not give in, he knew. He had promised the Inquisitor. He had promised himself. The demons of Kinloch Hold had not broken him, and neither would this. He set his jaw and opened his eyes to stare into the eddies of snowflakes.

And through them, a dark shape moving caught his attention. Just cresting the steep incline at the far side of Skyhold’s bridge, a lone figure stumbled unsteadily through the snow.

That snapped him out of his reverie; Cullen balked at the very thought of travelling in this. He remembered all too well the bitter cold of their exodus from Haven, and that had been early spring. Few would brave the journey in winter proper. After the defeat of Corypheus, the endless series of deliveries, messengers, dignitaries and envoys had slowed to a trickle; as the snowfalls increased and the temperature plummeted, they all but stopped.

Watching the traveller approach through the gusts of falling snow, Cullen immediately felt that something was not right. They were barely keeping their feet, veering from side to side as though drunk; there was some kind of staff on their back, and the weight seemed to be throwing off their balance even more. They staggered towards the bridge – Maker, the bridge. A rush of cold fear went down Cullen’s spine, and he pushed off the wall in front of him. The Skyhold bridge stretched across empty air, bordered by a scant lip of raised stone. Attempting to cross it on unsteady feet, in this weather, was suicide.

Just as Cullen turned for the stairs, he saw the traveller stumble and drop to their hands and knees. After a moment, they heaved the weapon from their back into the snow beside them, and tried to get back up – but dropped to their knees again.

Cullen let out the breath he’d been holding, before he hurried across the battlements and down the stairs as quickly as he could over the icy stone. When he reached the gatehouse, he found two guards seated on upturned crates, pulled in close beside the corner stove and its tiny fire. The guardswoman facing the door saw him first: “C-Commander!” she yelped, leaping out of her seat and saluting as he entered. Her companion was only a heartbeat behind her.

“Sivair, Hassup.” Having such a reduced force at Skyhold had its advantages: he could reliably put names to faces for once. They were both young, and had seen more than their share of hardship – Sivair had been a refugee from the Orlesian civil war, and Hassup was the only one of his family to survive the Ferelden Blight. He opted to spare them the harsh reprimand they likely expected. “This is terrible weather for guard duty,” he conceded briskly, “but at least one of you has to be upstairs actually keeping watch. Someone is approaching, and it seems they need aid.” He saw that Sivair’s teeth were chattering no matter how she tried to clamp them shut. The winters in the Dales were mild, and her cloak looked far too thin for this sort of chill. “Sivair, go and inform Ser Morris that I am requisitioning you a warmer cloak,” he instructed. She saluted, visibly relieved, and hurried from the room. Cullen turned to the other guard. “Hassup, you’re with me.”

Cullen braced himself against the cold as they left the gatehouse. “I hope you’ve got warm socks on, Hassup.” The wind was freezing and thick with snow as they stepped out onto the bridge, and his eyes watered as they headed into the face of it. He trudged across with the guard in his wake, focussing on the dark shape just visible through the storm. The traveller had managed to rock back onto their haunches in the snow, but with the visibility so poor details only came gradually; a greyish cloak with the hood drawn up, dark leathers, gauntlets, all of it now dusted with white. The weapon that had been cast aside was not a staff at all, but a wrapped greatsword, which seemed rather at odds with the traveler’s slight build. As they drew near, stepping off the bridge and into the slight shelter of the barbican, the visitor’s head finally lifted to regard them. A shifting gust of wind whipped the stranger’s hood back from their face, to reveal a head of shockingly white hair and an elf’s pointed ears. Cullen immediately knew this was no stranger at all. “… Fenris?”

Fenris was thinner than Cullen remembered, his hair longer and bound back – but there was no doubt this was the same elven warrior he had met in Kirkwall, almost grey with cold.

Hassup cleared his throat. “Commander?” he ventured, shifting from foot to foot and chafing his hands against the chill.

“I know him. He is a friend of…” Hawke’s his mind finished, but the ramifications of that were too many for him to consider in the moment. “… Varric’s.” Fenris stared dully at him, swaying where he crouched. “Hassup, bring the weapon.” Cullen inclined his head towards the fallen greatsword. He went to Fenris’ side, kneeling in the snow beside him. “We have to get you out of this storm. Can you put your arm around my shoulder?” To his relief, the elf complied, scrabbling for grip in the fur of his cloak. Cullen stood again, hauling Fenris up with him, and took a few hesitant steps – but the slighter man’s feet wouldn’t hold his weight, and his grip failed. Cullen shook his head. “There’s nothing for it. I'm going to carry you.” He stepped in front of Fenris, stooping so he could haul the elf up onto his back. Fenris’ arms wrapped weakly around his shoulders like a child’s, and Cullen frowned – the Fenris he’d seen back in Kirkwall would have reacted to being picked up with nothing short of violence. He was also alarmingly light: being tall for an elf and given the muscle required for his choice of weapon, he should have weighed far more. Cullen grit his teeth and headed back out across the bridge.

By the time they reached the gatehouse, Fenris’ frame was limp against his back and Cullen was hunching far forwards with his hands hooked behind the elf’s legs to help keep him in place. Walking through the snowstorm had been as unpleasant as he’d imagined, and it was a great relief to step into the shadow of Skyhold’s walls and out of the worst of the wind. Cullen’s face was freezing, his eyebrows and hair dusted with snow. How long had Fenris been travelling through this weather on foot? There had been few days in the last fortnight without snowfall.

Cullen carefully lifted Fenris higher on his back, and headed straight up towards the infirmary. “Hassup –” He glanced behind him as best he could, to see that the soldier was struggling up the lower stairs behind him with Fenris’ covered greatsword clutched diagonally across his chest; its tip had left divots in the snow as he heaved it along. Cullen blinked, wondering – not for the first time – if the weapon outweighed its owner. “Please take the sword to the Undercroft and see that it is cleaned and dried. And request one of the mages from the tower to come to the infirmary urgently.”

As he turned, he just caught the slightly desperate glance Hassup gave the double staircase that led up to the Great Hall.

Chapter Text

The place was deserted. Cullen glanced around him in disbelief, hoping a healer would suddenly materialize from a side room. All was still and quiet, though the remnants of a good fire smouldering in the hearth meant it was at least warm. He uttered a prayer under his breath that Hassup would root out a Creation mage from behind a worktable somewhere in the mage tower. In the meantime, Cullen’s field knowledge would have to serve. He laid his burden carefully on a nearby bed; Fenris gave a low groan, snow-caked lashes fluttering open for a moment, but then went very still again.

Cullen dropped his cloak on an adjoining cot, then peeled off his vambraces and gloves so he could touch his fingertips against Fenris’ neck. “Maker’s breath, you are frozen," he muttered, feeling for the elf’s pulse. It was so faint he had trouble finding it at all, and when he did it was thready and slow – very slow. “Exposure,” Cullen concluded aloud, unsurprised. Right.

Working fast, he added some extra wood to the fire and unbuckled his cumbersome breastplate, while he mentally ran through everything he knew about treating this sort of chill. Take off the sleet-sodden clothing. Warm Fenris up, gradually. Frostbite? He looked doubtfully at the clawed gauntlets on Fenris’ hands, which were coated in rapidly-melting ice crystals. He had seen frostbite bad enough before that the fingers had come right off, frozen solid inside the man’s gloves. Cullen unbuckled the first gauntlet, pulling it carefully from Fenris’ hand, then held his breath as he drew back the leather glove beneath. Cullen let the breath go as a sigh of relief – the elf’s fingers were purple-white and bloodless, but not frozen through. The white tattoos lined both sides of Fenris’ hand, tracing his fingers, as though his skeleton were visible through the flesh. Cullen eased off the second gauntlet and glove and saw that the same pattern was marked onto that hand, mirrored perfectly.

As he worked at removing the rest of Fenris’ gear, Cullen couldn't quite make sense of Fenris' state: his boots were too thin and his feet had suffered the worst of the frostbite, but he was otherwise dressed in warm, sturdy layers – still mostly dry – and his cloak was lined with fur. It didn’t make sense that he was so dangerously cold. It was, however, alarmingly obvious how underweight Fenris was; his skin seemed thin, cleaving too close to muscle and bone, the veins clearly visible in his arms and throat.

When he opened the grey tunic that lay against Fenris’ body, Cullen’s eyes widened. The white tattoos wound in an oddly organic pattern across the elf’s entire torso, coursing all the way down to below the waistband of his breeches – and a band of chilled purple-white flesh edged every silver line, itself surrounded by livid red. Cullen gently tilted Fenris’ head to get a better look at his neck, and saw that the tattooed lines there looked frozen, too.

Cullen finished removing the rest of Fenris’ clothing, easing the damp layers out from underneath, until the elf lay in only his smallclothes. The white tattoos traced every part of his body, legs, back, even the tops of his feet, and everywhere they were edged with freezing skin.

The door creaked open, bringing with it a brief gust of cold air, and Cullen pulled the blankets hastily over Fenris' body - cold was the last thing he needed.

“Vishante kaffas, what possessed me to winter in the South?” That was not the voice Cullen had expected at all. He glanced over his shoulder to see Dorian step through the doorway and snap it quickly shut behind him. The Tevinter mage stamped his feet on the floor as he approached the fire, brushing a dusting of snow from his shoulders and shivering visibly.

“Well you could wear some proper clothes,” Cullen suggested, noting that the wrapped cloak Dorian wore had two clasps open at the throat, and was hitched up with a buckled strap to expose a hint of bronze skin at his chest.

“I assume you mean Ferelden clothes?” Dorian wrinkled his nose in distaste at the thought. “I believe I’d rather freeze. In any case, I hear you might benefit from my talents. I intercepted a rather harried-looking soldier on his way to the mage tower, and volunteered myself.”

“I – er, didn’t realise you could heal,” Cullen admitted, somewhat dubiously.

“Well, it’s not a particular talent of mine,” the mage began, approaching the cot. “But you will be relieved to know my magical education was nothing if not thor–” He stopped at Cullen’s shoulder, staring at Fenris’ figure. “Fasta vass.”

Cullen barely registered the mage’s reaction, focussed on pulling another warm blanket around Fenris. “It looks like, somehow, the tattoos are chilling him.”

“Of course…” Dorian muttered. "It cooled faster, then absorbed the heat from the skin around it…”

Cullen regarded him blankly for a moment. “What?”

Dorian rolled his eyes and then spoke as though addressing a slightly slow child: “The lyrium, Commander. If your skin was packed with this much, you’d get chilled in cold weather too.” He peered at Fenris' clammy, bloodless feet, then turned abruptly from the bedside to scan the infirmary. “I think warm water might be best here… ”

Cullen had pulled his fingers back from Fenris’ arm as though the ice-cold skin had scalded him. It was his turn to stare. “Lyrium?”

“Ah… yes, thats what the markings are. I assumed you could tell. Ex-templar and all that.” Dorian had found a copper tub in the corner, and was busy excavating it from beneath a small mountain of wrapped supplies. “Or that you knew already… if this is who I think it is, you were surely sharing geography for quite some time in Kirkwall.”

“Why would anyone… do this?” Cullen finally managed. He thought about the way Templars declined as they aged, long exposure to lyrium eroding their minds, the way even dwarves who worked with the substance could slowly become addled – to have it imbued into the body like this was unspeakable.

“Oh, extremes of excess by a Magister, of course.” Dorian gestured at the tub, now free of clutter. “If you’d kindly fill this up with snow, I can tell you what I know while we try to thaw out your fascinating visitor.”

It didn’t take long for Cullen to pile the tub with snow from the threshold, using the coal shovel from the fireplace, but it took mere moments for Dorian to turn the mound of ice into warm water. Flames rushed from both hands to lap against the frozen heap, creating a huge gout of steam as it melted. The room was instantly warm again, even though the door had been standing open while Cullen shovelled.

Dorian tested the temperature twice, adjusting it with a lick of extra flame and then another half-shovel of snow before he declared it ready. It was awkward to get Fenris into it, the elf’s knees folded towards his chest – but they managed it, cushioning the metal edge with folded blankets. The water felt barely warm, even against Cullen’s cold fingers, but he knew too much heat at once could be dangerous for someone so profoundly chilled.

Suddenly, there was a choked hitch in Fenris’ breathing. The elf’s eyes rolled half-open, then squeezed closed with force, his dark brows coming together in a frown.

“Fenris?” Cullen felt quickly for the elf’s pulse again. It was still there, still slow, although less alarmingly so now.

That strangled sound had made Cullen’s own pulse faster; he’d known someone, once, who’d died in circumstances too similar for comfort. In Cullen’s first winter at the Ferelden Circle, a young mage had fled into a blizzard across the frozen surface of Lake Calenhad. She was eventually tracked down and recovered, chilled to the bone and barely conscious. A well-meaning recruit had taken her to a hot bath – only for the mage’s heart to give out. The recruit didn’t stay long in the Order after that.

Fenris exhaled in low, ragged bursts, his head shifting against the blanket behind him, his lips drawing up in a grimace.

“Kaffas.” Dorian stood sharply and rushed over to the shelves set into the rear wall of the infirmary. He came back with a small bottle of a thick green liquid that Cullen knew well – elfroot suspension. “A foolish oversight on my part,” the mage said, his voice clipped as he gently poured a little into the side of Fenris’ mouth. The elf was conscious enough to swallow, although barely. “This man has been through plenty enough agony for one lifetime, and the sensation of unfreezing is not a pleasant one.” Cullen shot him a questioning look at that, and Dorian gave him a distracted nod. “I’ve been on the receiving end of a couple of overzealous frost spells. Had a decent case of frostbite myself once, back at the Minrathous Circle – a rival of mine took a very Tevinter direction with his solution to my besting him in a debate. Ambushed me and froze me just about solid. Could you take over this for me while I see what else I can do for him?”

Cullen fed Fenris the potion slowly, just a few drops at a time. Dorian frowned with concentration as he cast a net of soft green threads over the tub. “Given the use of lyrium as a magical amplifier, I have some misgivings about this,” he announced, watching their patient closely as the magic soaked into him. Fenris’ green eyes drifted open occasionally, pupils still wide, but he didn’t seem really aware of anything that was happening. After a while, the tension in his face finally eased so that he appeared to be simply sleeping.

Dorian leaned away from the cot, clenching and straightening his fingers as if they ached. “He’s lucky he didn’t walk straight off the path and roll halfway down a mountain." He gave a sympathetic shiver. “It’s almost impossible to think at all when you get cold enough. Now it’s just a matter of keeping the water warm and waiting for him to come to. Although…” Dorian cocked his head to one side and grimaced, “I’m not sure I want to be here for that, if reputation is anything to go by.”

“Reputation?”

“He’s infamous, at this point.” Dorian explained. "The 'lyrium ghost'."

Cullen looked down at Fenris, considering. The elf looked oddly younger than Cullen remembered, body half-curled, his rumpled white head tilted back and his face without its habitual scowl – though there were fine lines around his eyes and forehead that made Cullen wonder at his actual age. “To be honest, I don’t know that much about him. We were acquaintances at best, back in Kirkwall,” he explained, looking closely at the white patterns on Fenris’ chest and arms. The bloodless skin around the lines of frozen lyrium was beginning to redden, absorbing the warmth from the water. “He came to the Gallows with the Champion, now and then, and… I fought alongside them both, briefly, when the Gallows fell apart at the end.”

Cullen almost added something more, because he knew that Fenris and the Champion had been… he had seen that urgent kiss before they engaged the mages at the end. Cullen pushed the image from his mind, hoping the heat of the room would excuse the flush he felt come across his face.

Dorian didn’t seem to notice, also busy scrutinising Fenris. “I was vaguely acquainted with the man responsible for all of this.” Dorian’s gesture took in the white lines and dots that traced Fenris’ frame. Where the firelight caught the lyrium through the water’s surface, it gleamed like mother-of-pearl. “He attended the occasional soiree of my father’s, and he once gave a guest lecture when I was at the Minrathous Circle. He was apparently fascinated with some ancient uses for lyrium… I can’t say I paid all that much attention at the time. Then he turned up at some gala or other with your elven friend on a choke chain.” Dorian’s expression soured, and Cullen's stomach dropped. He’d assumed that Fenris had been a slave, perhaps even been told as such, but he’d never dwelt on the specifics; there were many escaped slaves in Kirkwall.

Dorian twisted the corner of his moustache, testing the temperature of the water again with the back of his other hand. “Danarius was exactly what all you southerners picture when you hear the word ‘Magister’. Ambitious, vain, callous – cruel. Never one to request when he could demand. I have to say I was rather delighted to hear that his favourite little project had given him the slip.” A slight smile touched the corners of his mouth again. “Even more so when the Magister went on a little sojourn to the Free Marches and never came back. Since then the word is his ‘lyrium ghost’ has been rather a thorn in the side of the slave trade – slavers disappearing all over that part of Thedas.” Dorian sounded impressed. “He’s probably caused more than a few of the Magisterium to rethink their next blood sacrifice. One isn’t so hasty to kill off their kitchen slaves when the price of a replacement has tripled in the space of a year.”

Cullen frowned – he didn’t think he’d ever understand Dorian’s homeland. The man himself didn’t seem to belong to such a dark and ruthless world, for all his magical skill and sharp-tongued wit; but then he had left it behind. He often spoke of returning to change it for the better, but he had yet to make any real plans to do so.

Cullen tapped his fingers on the side of the tub lightly. “Would he truly think you the same? You don't support any of that.” Idle talk over chess games, stretched over the space of nearly a year, had seen them slowly acquainted with one another’s lives and opinions. Dorian’s views on slavery had changed in his time with the Inquisition: once, he had viewed it as just another part of life, no worse than the way the poor eked out an existence in southern lands. But it was hard to marry that outlook with his acknowledgement that almost all Magisters practiced blood magic, at the price of slave lives… and the Venatori had demonstrated too often the evils of viewing people as property to be altered and disposed of at will. Fenris, it seemed, was yet more proof of that. "And you're no blood mage..."

“He would never believe that. As far as most slaves see things, just being of my class means I am cut from the same cloth as Danarius.” Dorian swirled a tiny heat spell through the water beside Fenris, raising the temperature just a notch, a frown that was more than just concentration pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Do you think his experiences have given him a good impression of people like me? At the whim of a Magister, he went through one of the most brutal magical rituals that has ever been enacted without killing the subject – though of course, there were those who tried to emulate Danarius when he was still smugly parading his phasma lyrium around Minrathous. Exactly zero of the unfortunate replicas survived the process.” He glanced at Cullen, his expression sour. “If only one could just do away with all the power-hungry blood mages in Tevinter with a snap of the fingers, that would improve matters there immeasurably in the space of a moment.” Dorian didn’t raise his voice, and his tone remained carefully light, but Cullen knew this was a difficult topic for the mage; it was the whole core of Dorian’s disillusionment with his homeland, and blood magic had all but severed his relationship with his own father. Dorian's lips quirked, and he added, "I suppose it would leave the Magisterium woefully understaffed."

“You’re doing what you can to change things there,” Cullen reasoned.

“Which isn’t much, beyond introducing some of the more enterprising Venatori to a fireball or two.” Dorian shrugged weakly. “Perhaps it is nearly–”

Fenris gave a low moan, almost a growl, opening his eyes more fully this time. He looked at Cullen, or rather, looked straight through him. “Hawke,” he mumbled, reaching out his frostbitten hand as though to touch Cullen’s face. “Varric said you…” he trailed off, still gazing blankly into the space behind Cullen’s head, and his hand dropped shakily back down to the side of the tub.

Cullen swallowed, hard, as his mind completed the sentence automatically: Varric said you were dead. And so Hawke was – left behind in the Fade to secure the others’ escape. Varric had sent a letter, and the letter had apparently brought Fenris across half of Thedas. Cullen cleared his throat awkwardly. “It’s Cullen Rutherford – once Knight-Captain of Kirkwall’s templars.” He suspected Fenris still wasn’t really hearing him, but his chest was suddenly tight and he needed to fill the silence with something. “You are at Skyhold. You were caught in a snowstorm.”

“Hawke… loves snow,” Fenris said, barely audible. He closed his eyes again, head slowly resting back against the folded blanket behind him. “Loved… snow.” He winced, sucking in air through clenched teeth. But then his face relaxed, and he was drifting again.

Chapter Text

They had just lifted Fenris back to the bed and covered him with a new cocoon of warmed blankets when the door opened again with another rush of chill air. A middle-aged woman hurried inside, shutting the door quickly enough to slam behind her. Cullen recognised her; a senior nurse by the name of Beatrix, thin and wiry, with greying brown hair pulled back in a messy bun. She wore a practical smock and a patched, stained apron. “My apologies, Commander, I came as fast as I could once I heard!” She bustled over to the bedside. “One of the kitchen maids has been so ill, I didn’t dare leave the poor girl until her fever began to fall, and then Ellie doesn’t start work until midday…”

“Of course - no need to apologise. These things can’t be helped,” Cullen assured her, while she peered down at Fenris. “Dorian and I have managed quite well.”

Dorian gave a rather distracted smile without shifting his eyes from his work; he had begun to cast another green web of healing over Fenris, who had fallen back into an exhausted sleep.

She stared at Dorian. For a moment Dorian’s shoulders tensed. “By the Maker, serah, you heal? Well, if you are ever in need of occupation at Skyhold you would be most welcome here.”

He straightened as he finished the spell, blinking at her in surprise. “Well - I mean, even I must concede Creation is not my forte. But if even rudimentary healing will help, I may be able to assist on occasion…”

Cullen hid a smile behind the blanket he was unfolding. Being part of the victory against Corypheus had changed many minds about Dorian, and Cullen wondered how long it would take for the former pariah to get used to being ‘welcome’ anywhere.

“I don’t think I can do much more,” Dorian admitted, as together they laid the last blanket over Fenris and tucked the edges in underneath his limbs. “Freezing damages the flesh differently to a simple wound; you can’t just knit it together the same way – the fluid in the tissue causes tiny ruptures as it freezes and expands. If Vivienne hadn’t flitted off to Val Royeaux… or of course Solas…” He trailed off with a shrug. The elven apostate had disappeared without warning, and even the extensive spy network commanded by Leliana – now Divine Victoria – had been unable to find a trace of him. “But he won’t lose the toes, at least, and I believe I’ve headed off the worst of the swelling. I can hopefully do more once the blisters form.”

Cullen stayed a while after Dorian excused himself, mostly to make certain that Fenris was actually sleeping this time, and not wandering in and out of unconsciousness. Finally, with some reluctance, Cullen replaced his armour and pulled his cloak back around his shoulders. After accepting the nurse's assurance that she would have a runner sent as soon as Fenris woke, no matter the hour, he headed out in search of Varric.

The storm had not lasted long this time, just enough to leave a fresh blanket of snow over the cleared walkways through the keep. A rare winter sun, all light and little heat, had emerged from the behind the clouds. A few particularly energetic guards were already taking advantage of the weather to spar in the practice yard nearby, their boots churning up the fresh powder. They stopped and saluted Cullen as he passed on his way towards the stone steps, and he nodded his acknowledgement.

On first acquaintance, Varric seemed a complicated man – he was witty, sly and urbane, rubbing shoulders with nobles and outwitting the merchants’ guild at every turn. But at heart, the dwarf was a lover of simple things and a creature of habit. If it had been evening, Cullen would have gone to Varric’s favourite corner in the Herald’s Rest, where a game of Wicked Grace or Diamondback would be unfolding. Early afternoon saw him in the target range, weather permitting, fine-tuning his beloved crossbow. But at this time of the morning Cullen knew he would be ensconced in front of the hearth in the main hall.

He had assumed that Varric would disappear back to Kirkwall as soon as Corypheus was dealt with, but the dwarf had decided to winter at Skyhold before making the trek north. He said he was in no hurry to be back sharing the city with the Merchants Guild, that he surely deserved a short break before throwing himself straight from dealing with a thousand-year-old darkspawn to patching up the disaster that was Kirkwall. But Cullen wondered if it was more that Varric wasn’t ready to be surrounded by so many memories of Hawke – not that any would blame him, after losing his closest friend. Cullen himself couldn’t quite imagine Kirkwall without the Champion, anymore. He had gone over the events of that day dozens of times, trying to work out if he could have done something more to prevent the need for Hawke’s sacrifice: if they had gained the walls faster, if they had gotten the Inquisitor through to Erimond and Clarel before that huge rift had been opened at all… but he knew he had done his best. They all had. The cost of war was terrible, and Hawke had been only one of thousands that had not survived it. Their victory had at least seen that it was not all in vain - that had to be enough.

Cullen suddenly realised he had been standing outside the Great Hall for some time, frowning at the weathered double doors as though they'd offended him. He glanced at the soldiers in the practice yard and was relieved that they seemed to be paying him no mind. He rolled the tension out of his neck and shoulders and adjusted his face into something less pensive, then eased open one heavy door and went through.

Varric sat beside the simple mess table he had long appropriated as a desk, elbows on his knees, chin resting against tented fingers, the very image of a man deep in thought. It was only when Cullen moved directly in front of his line of sight that Varric looked up with a start, as though Cullen had physically shaken him.

“Something on your mind?” Cullen asked mildly.

“Ah, Curly. Too many things,” Varric admitted, scratching at the back of his neck. “Funny how winning made life suddenly more complicated.”

Cullen nodded. “I know what you mean.”

“And what can I do for you?” The dwarf gestured towards one of the other chairs. “Have a seat.”

“It appears this is one of those complicated days, Varric,” Cullen said. “Fenris is here.”

“What?” Varric was on his feet in an instant, pale under his swarthiness. “Where?” His eyes roved around the hall behind Cullen.

“In the infirmary. It seems he walked up the mountain. He’s lucky he didn’t die of exposure, though he came close enough.”

“Well, shit,” Varric muttered, leaning against the wooden table beside him. “He’ll be all right?”

Cullen rested his hands on the pommel of his sword. “He’s out of danger.”

“What’s he doing here?” Varric seemed to be struggling to decide how to feel about this development, but he obviously didn't like it. Cullen wasn’t completely sure why: as far as he knew, Varric was friends with all of the Champion’s associates.

“I haven’t been able to ask him that yet. He wasn’t exactly… talkative." Cullen grimaced at the understatement. “He’s asleep at the moment.”

“I guess it’s safe to assume he got my letter, then,” the dwarf mused. “Maker, I should have expected something like this – Fenris doesn’t really do understated. I would assume he’d come to take his grisly vengeance on me, but he knows I would never have let anything happen to…” He straightened again suddenly, staring up at Cullen. “Oh. Uh, Curly? I think we better take this to the Inquisitor.”

Cullen pushed the door slightly ajar before he called up through the Inquisitor’s quarters: “Inquisitor. It is Cullen – and Varric. A moment of your time?”

“Come in!” came the response from the landing above.

Inquisitor Revem Lavellan was sitting cross-legged on the rug beside his bed, a fan of papers arrayed around him – scrolls, diagrams, scribbled notes. On the bed, Dorian reclined against the pillows, stretched out with his ankles crossed in front of him and a book open in his hand. There was a crackling fire in the hearth and a breathtaking vista of snow-capped mountains visible through the latticed window-panes.

“Well, isn’t this cosy,” Varric drawled with a grin as they came around the balustrade.

Dorian glared at him archly over the top of the book. “It was, until the intrusion.”

The Inquisitor smiled, glancing over his shoulder at Dorian, whose gaze immediately softened. “It’s nice to have a chance to just... be together, for a bit."

Dorian set aside his book. “And how fares the patient?”

“Still sleeping, as far as I know. I left only a little after you,” Cullen explained. “I thought I should inform Varric. Varric has some… reservations.”

“Oh?” Revem straightened in his seat, his blue eyes sharp. With his slender form, clear skin and long russet hair braided down one side, Revem appeared younger than he was - he was often underestimated as a result, a fact rued by many enemies of the Inquisition who found themselves outwitted and outmanoeuvred.

“Fenris has come calling,” Varric explained simply, frowning. “Though he’s apparently indisposed by a spot of being nearly frozen to death.”

“Yes, Dorian mentioned our visitor,” Revem said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I remember Hawke speaking of him several times.” Regret flickered across his delicate features.

“Yeah.” There was a strained note to Varric’s voice, and he coughed to cover it. When he spoke again, he sounded more composed. “Well, they were very attached. Remember when Hawke said something about not wanting to give Fenris the chance to die to keep him safe? I doubt Fenris feels the same way about being denied that chance. And it occurred to me - well, I just hope he's not holding you responsible for all of this. He’s not exactly… forgiving.”

“What are you saying, Varric?” Dorian asked. “That he’s here to take revenge on Revem? Sort of – ‘you left my lover in the Fade, now I’ll send you to the Void?’” He adopted a deeper voice that was oddly accurate, given the accent. “You’re rather making me regret thawing him out.”

Varric sighed. “I don’t think so – I don’t think he’d go that far. But I didn’t think he’d drag himself halfway across Thedas and up a damned mountain either!” The dwarf threw his hands up in the air, half-turning. “All I really know is that Hawke meant everything to Fenris.” His voice had gone quiet and deadly serious. “If he holds you to blame, I wouldn't put anything past him. Not exactly a history of peaceful resolution with that one.”

There was an anxious pause, before Revem asked quietly: “Do you blame me, Varric?”

“Andraste’s ass, of course not! I was there in the Fade, remember? The fact that any of us lived is too impossible to even write a decent story about.” Varric turned back to fully face the Inquisitor. “And, yeah, I missed the very end, but I can just see how it played out. Hawke never did a damned thing that wasn’t his own idea, insane or no.” He paused again; it hadn’t shown in his voice this time, but Cullen could see the grief in the tightness around Varric’s eyes and the set of his mouth. At length, the dwarf gave a shrug. “But much as I loved the guy, I wasn’t in love with him. And you’ve seen enough of my screwed up personal life to believe me when I say… I know how hard it is to see logic with that in the way.”

Revem leaned his head further forward, resting it on his palms. “Please let me know when he’s awake. I’d like to speak with him.”

“Amatus, have we not been listening to the same conversation?” Dorian said, all pretense at levity gone. “I feel terribly for the man, obviously, but I have had quite enough of watching you put yourself at risk of late.”

“Well, surely then it's best I speak to him before the frostbite is fully healed. I think I’m fast enough to stay ahead of someone with blistered feet, even if he is as good as Varric’s book makes out.” Revem straightened to level a very solemn expression at Dorian. “He’s come a very long way, and the Inquisition has cost him a very great deal. The least I can do is hear him out.”

Dorian opened his mouth, his brow furrowing, but Cullen interjected neatly: “We don’t even know why Fenris is here. Perhaps he simply came to see Varric – he’s your friend, isn’t he?”

Varric nodded. “Yes – and you’re right. And I could have totally the wrong read on this.” He sighed again, rubbing his forehead. “But we’ve discussed it before, Inquisitor – you have the worst luck. It would sound about right for you to survive all the crazy shit you have so far, only to be killed in your own fortress by a very angry elf. Forewarned is forearmed, as the saying goes, okay?”

Chapter Text

As the afternoon wore on, Cullen volunteered an extra set of arms to help shovel the many pathways and stairs that wound around the courtyard and battlements, trundling seemingly-endless hand carts of snow out to be dumped into the valley below. Once that was taken care of, he mostly managed to immerse himself in paperwork; though not quite the endless uphill battle it had once been, there were still more than enough requisitions to check and missives to process to keep him occupied. He had just set aside a proposal for a new target dummy – wheeled, of all things – when a sudden beat of pain through the front of his head made him wince against it. When he opened his eyes, he stared in realisation at the desk in front of him. His head hurt, but until that moment… he had been feeling fine. For the first time he could remember in a very long while, the endless ache in his skull had been gone.

He rubbed his temples as the familiar pain bloomed gradually across the front of his skull, and thought back on the day. He remembered that it was bothering him on the battlements that morning, but nothing after that. He had shovelled snow, of all things, cheerfully, feeling better than he had in months. Perhaps the last tendrils of the lyrium’s hold on him were finally loosening. He leaned back in his chair, and breathed out a low prayer to the Maker that it were so.

Much later that night, Cullen finally gave up on sleep, the headache grown so bad it felt like the seams in his skull were slowly splitting apart. He forced himself to sit up and climb unsteadily from the bed - with every movement, needle-sharp bursts shot across the space behind his eyes and down his spine. Cullen stumbled towards the ladder, hunched against the pain and squinting even in the darkness. His grip was white-knuckled on the rungs as he made his way down, the room seeming to swim around him.

In his office, he somehow made it across to the desk and crouched to rifle through the drawers – but he’d known already what he would find. He hadn’t renewed his store of elfroot in weeks; as winter set in and expeditions to gather herbs had been fewer and fewer, he hadn’t felt it right to keep a personal supply.

There was no runner stationed outside his door, either - another concession to winter weather and the reduced presence at Skyhold - so there was no one to ask for help. “Maker,” he groaned, rocking back on his heels. The headache was still getting worse, bringing with it waves of nausea. The first six weeks without lyrium, every night had been this bad, and the elfroot had felt like it was literally saving his life – he wasn’t sure he could manage without it.

A blinding jolt behind his right eye, like a punch, had him nearly doubled over. His stomach heaved, his mouth suddenly pouring saliva. There was nothing for it. He dragged on his cloak, stuffed his feet into his boots and staggered out into the night.

It was like being hurled into icy water. The frozen wind off the mountain nearly yanked his cloak from his grip and he wrapped both arms around himself to keep it in place. Bent at the waist and cringing against his headache and the chill air, panted breath misting, he hobbled along the battlements. The cold drove through his skull like a spike, but at least the chill scoured away the urge to vomit.

By the time he reached the far stairs and made his agonising way down to the infirmary he could barely tell up from down: yawning voids whitened his vision and his eyes were nearly squeezed shut. He was shivering so much in the frigid air it was hard to get a grip on the handle, but he finally clawed the door open.

He stumbled into the room and pulled the door closed behind him. The infirmary was warm and light from the fire, vague shapes of beds and supplies cast in a dim orange glow still too bright for Cullen’s pounding head. Cullen peered around the room for one of the healers – Maker's breath, was there no one here again? He began to move towards the far wall where the potions were stored, but his foot snagged on a loose blanket and his shaky balance stood no chance. He fell heavily against the side of one of the beds.

“Who's there?” said a gravelly voice, thick with sleep. Cullen looked blearily up beside him and the events of the previous day flashed back; it was Fenris, a doubled shape of white hair and tan skin, leaning up on one elbow to look down over the edge of the narrow bed. “Are you… unwell?”

“Headache,” rasped Cullen. The room was spinning. Getting up seemed an impossible challenge, and he could have wept with frustration.

“That must be quite the headache,” the elf muttered. “Here.” Fenris reached out and took Cullen's arm, helping him up to kneeling.

The pain battering him dissipated like smoke. The room came swimming back into focus; he stared up at Fenris in shock, to see the elf staring back at him. Fenris narrowed his eyes, uncertain, the line of his mouth tightening. “… Knight-Captain Cullen?” he murmured, sounding confused.

Cullen withdrew his hand, rubbing it as though it had been burned, and got to his feet. It was easy now, and he looked down at himself in utter disbelief. “What did you… ?” It didn’t make any sense. Fenris was no mage, and even healing had only so much effect when the pain reached that intensity. Then Fenris’ question finally sunk in, and the length of the pause since it had been asked: “Yes, though… not Knight-Captain, anymore.”

“I was told of a Commander Cullen,” Fenris began, a question in his voice.

“Ah…” Cullen said absently, still floundering. “Yes, I command the Inquisition’s forces, now.”

Fenris glanced away. “Then I understand that I owe you my life.” He sounded unconvinced that it was anything to be grateful for. When he turned his face back, the white lines tracing down his jaw and neck gleamed in the firelight. Cullen’s mouth went dry, realisation needling up through his skull. He looked slowly down at Fenris’ arm, still hanging over the edge of the bed. The silvery-white lines wrapped around it like veins. Lyrium tattoos, Dorian said. After all this time, was it possible he had… ?

Cullen forced down the jolt of panic, gathering himself as rapidly as he could. Whatever effect the lyrium in Fenris’ skin may have had, he could not undo it by falling apart. It was hammered into Templars from their earliest days in training not to show weakness, and Cullen had shown too much of his already.

“I apologise for my lack of composure,” he said slowly, taking a small step away from the bed. “The headache seems to have eased – I’m not sure whether – perhaps the cold air helped,” he finished lamely.

“You could not stay upright, a moment ago.” Fenris sounded as though he didn’t know what to make of Cullen. The irises in his eyes looked black in the half-light, his expression intent. “Is it usual for such pain to be cured by cold air?”

Cullen let out a short breath. “Not - usual, no." He rubbed at the back of his neck. “It didn’t seem to be going anywhere, until this moment. I was hoping the healer had some elfroot potion to spare.” He couldn't be sure, he reasoned to himself, he couldn’t be absolutely sure Fenris and his lyrium markings had anything to do with it. Still, he took another stuttering step backwards, bringing him up against the empty cot behind him. He sat, rather gratefully: physically, he felt sound again – better than sound, being pain-free for the second time in as many days – but his mind was reeling. He glanced about him, determined to change the subject from his mysteriously disappearing headache. “Speaking of the healer, one should be here.”

“There was a man here when I woke up. He asked me some questions and went to find the Co… you, in fact,” Fenris amended. “Apparently you wished to be informed at once."

Cullen nodded. “I was - am - worried about your condition,” he explained. “You were not in a good way when I found you out there.” It was scarcely more comfortable to talk of Fenris’ plight than his own; wariness and empathy warred in him. He had a strategist’s need for the facts of the situation, but he didn’t know which questions he should avoid. Fenris’ mental state was, despite his apparent calm, still an unknown. “Did he explain what happened?”

“Yes. I do not remember the final climb to Skyhold at all.” Fenris frowned down at his legs, cocooned in blankets. Most of his upper body was enveloped in a large cloak, even with the warmth of the room. “I did attempt to dress for the cold, it was not my intent to…” He shook his head slightly and changed tack. “I will admit, I have little knowledge of snow.”

“We don’t think it was anything you did, necessarily. Dor–” Cullen hesitated. “The healer who helped me when I brought you in, he thought that the markings brought the chill on faster… something about the lyrium getting cold and then drawing heat from the flesh around it.”

“Of course,” Fenris muttered bitterly, his hands balled into fists atop the blankets. “Yet another delightful side-effect.” He straightened, taking a deep breath. “My feet are… in poor condition. I suppose it’s just as well I let that peddler talk me into shoes.”

Cullen nearly choked. “You were going to walk up to Skyhold barefoot?”

Fenris shrugged and gave a small smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “It sufficed for Sundermount, many times. I can count the times I’ve ever worn shoes on one hand.”

“Thank the Maker for persuasive shoe-sellers, then. How bad is the damage?” Cullen asked.

Fenris’ face was towards the fire, now, and Cullen didn’t miss the tightening of his jaw or the jump of a muscle in his neck. “Hard to say, as yet.” He pulled up the blankets slightly to reveal one of his feet, and Cullen winced in sympathy. Fenris’ toes were red and mangled, blisters beginning to swell them out of shape, and even the thickly callused soles were warped by the underlying fluid. The low light did little to soften the effect.

“How is the pain?” Cullen reached across to tuck the blanket back into place, careful not to touch Fenris’ skin again, and gently smoothed it down. “Have you had more elfroot?” When Fenris didn’t immediately answer, he turned to look up at the elf, to find Fenris watching him with a raw sadness to his expression. Cullen straightened instantly, pulling his hands back. “I apologise.”

“There is no need.” Fenris shook his head, scraping his white hair back from his face; it had come loose from its tie at some point, and in parts it was long enough to brush his shoulders. “I was just, ah, you reminded me of something. Forgive me – I am… not myself, of late.”

There were so many things to say, crowding in the back of Cullen’s throat. He said none of them – worried any platitude or apology would only irritate a fresh wound. He didn’t know Fenris well enough to guess what might help, rather than harm.

Fenris blinked a few times, and his eyes were guarded once more. “I do not need elfroot. The pain is… not unbearable,” Fenris said.

Cullen glanced up sharply. That didn’t seem possible. “I know enough of frostbite to doubt that,” he protested.

Fenris was quiet for a few breaths, considering. “I have a... high tolerance for pain,” he said finally. Fenris flattened his hands on the covers, inspecting the lyrium lines that traced the surface. “That I can feel it at all is proof enough of injury. I rarely feel any discomfort outside of what the markings bring.”

Cullen blinked. “You... how is that even...?”

Fenris gave a slight shrug. “Perhaps something was damaged when they were placed. Or perhaps the process… re-defined my sense of pain.”

Cullen couldn’t stop the words this time: “Maker, what did they do to you?”

Fenris raised his eyebrows, taken aback. “You haven’t read Varric’s damned book? I thought everyone knew his account of the broody elf and his tragic past.”

“Ah, no.” Cullen adjusted his cloak around his shoulders, pulling the front more tightly closed. “There was nothing about my time in Kirkwall I was keen to relive.”

Fenris leaned back, frowning. “Of course.” He gave a resigned sigh. “I do not know how Danarius created the markings. The ritual… the pain was extraordinary. I was sure I was dying.” He grimaced slightly, closing his eyes. “I hoped I was. When I woke afterwards, I don’t know how many days later, the memory of my life before was completely gone. Perhaps that was even deliberate; I cannot say.”

“And they’ve caused you pain ever since?”

Fenris inclined his head. “Most of the time.”

Cullen couldn’t imagine it; he had borne his own private torment almost a year, and he had lost count of the number of times he thought he could endure no more. He had first encountered Fenris, what, almost eleven years ago now? Already years after he had been mutilated this way. “How do you endure it?” he murmured, though he had not quite intended to ask aloud.

“I had no choice. And I couldn’t remember anything else, which perhaps helped.” He paused for a moment, eyes sharp as he looked Cullen over. “You–”

The door banged open as someone backed into the room, bringing a flickering light with them. It was a young man, carrying a crate in both hands and with a lit lantern dangling from two fingers. “He wasn’t in his quarters,” he said, “but they’ll send him here as soon as he’s about. The Commander’s known to keep odd hours… not good for his health, to work so hard even with the war been and done.” He was tall and gangly, dressed in a dark brown tunic and breeches and with an apron tied around his waist. He carefully placed the lantern to one side before setting the box down on the worktable. When he turned around and saw Cullen, he reddened up to his hairline. “Commander!”

“Don’t worry, you’re far from the first person to say that.” Cullen always felt a sense of solidarity with other people who were prone to blush. He was quite sure he was colouring, too, self-conscious as he remembered he was still wearing his rumpled sleeping clothes. “I daresay it’s very true.” He shifted his weight, crossing his arms to hold his cloak closed. “I appreciate the efforts to keep me updated. Please take good care of our guest.”

Fenris was still watching him too closely, and Cullen couldn’t quite bring himself to meet his eye. “I shouldn’t keep you from your rest, Fenris." He turned away from the bed. "I will come and see you again later.”

Chapter Text

Cullen trudged back to his quarters, shivering, thankful for the lack of prying eyes. With the door closed safely behind him, he leaned back against it and let his head thud into the wood. One moment of dull pain, and then it was gone again as quickly as it came – like he would once have expected, before he stopped taking the lyrium.

He had barely thought about it the previous day, but now that he suspected its possible cause the lack of pain was disturbing, bringing with it a sense of wrongness. How far could he have set his recovery back, just from putting his hand on lyrium-lined skin?

Fenris' skin, and the tortured history it represented. Cullen brought his head forward and struck it against the door again, softer this time. Their encounter had shaken him, even beyond its implications for his addiction. Fenris’ quiet revelations about his life had cast everything Cullen knew about the man in a new light. The elven warrior had spent years on end, hundreds of battles at the side of the Champion of Kirkwall, living every day with what had nearly broken Cullen in the space of a few months. The image of Fenris’ green eyes closing, the furrow in his silver-marked brow as he said: I was sure I was dying. I hoped I was. 

Cullen blinked rapidly. Stop it, he thought sharply, annoyed with himself. Ten minutes of conversation surely had made them little better acquainted; he couldn’t get caught up with concern for Fenris, no matter how justified. Logically, the best thing he could do would be to stay as far away as possible from the elf.

He shook his head with a self-deprecating smile; he remembered having that identical thought many years ago, about another surprising elf, both intimidating and vulnerable. She had been an apprentice mage at the tower; quietly charismatic, studious, vastly talented, and he had been a foolish youth with an ill-advised fondness for her. Then, he was assigned as slayer at her Harrowing. Standing over her, his sword at her white throat as she drifted in the Fade, he realised just how serious his feelings were; he was terrified that she wouldn’t make it, sick with the thought of having to strike her down. His joy and relief when she came through unscathed, so quickly, had seen him less than subtle in his praise of her to some of the other apprentices. She found him out, she confronted him, and confessed that the feeling was – unbelievably – mutual. And he had obeyed his good Templar instincts, and literally ran from her.

Cullen pushed away from the door and towards the ladder, hauling himself up to his bedroom. Maker, he had been twice over a fool. What good had it done him – or her – to avoid a moment’s joy before all that came after? Neria Surana had gone on to greatness, the Hero of Ferelden, and he had become just another part of her burden, another unfortunate to save. Cullen stepped out of his boots and peeled off his cloak and tunic, then let himself fall sideways onto the his mattress. He could still see her face, fine-boned with wide grey eyes, filtered through the sickly pink barrier that had held him thrall to every torture the desire demons had devised for him. He had been terrified of the sight of her, then.

He pressed the heel of his hand against his eye socket, scraping his fingernails through his hairline. There was no changing what he had been, or what he was, no denying that he relied absolutely on maintaining control. It had kept him together, then and now. Whatever challenges they might share, Fenris represented the risk of losing that control at a touch of lyrium-inlaid flesh. Cullen would have to be more careful to remain, figuratively and literally, at arm’s length.

The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, filling the room with warm yellow light. Cullen leaned back into his chair. It was snowing outside, but inside their house it was cosy and comfortable. Their mabari was stretched out on the rug before the hearth.

Their? Who?

“Cullen,” came Neria’s musical voice as she stepped out of the small hallway that led to the bedrooms. “The children are asleep. Whatever shall we find to occupy us for the evening?” Her lips curved in a suggestive smile, and he chuckled softly. She approached, her long-lashed eyes half closed. He began to reach his hand forward to touch her lovely face, but as he did a spark of something gleamed in her eyes – some predatory triumph. He drew his hand back, frowning.

Her face – if they had children, how did she seem so unchanged?

“I don’t think so,” Cullen said, standing and moving to put the chair between them.

“No?” Annoyance flickered over her features, and just for a moment they seemed to shift – her eyes changed colour, her lips reddened. She smiled again, and she was Neria once more. “You can’t mean that. We were meant for each other.”

But Cullen could see it now, the edges of something else showing through the illusion around them like blood seeping through a bandage.

“No, we weren’t. She left.” He backed away another step. “You’re not her.”

“Well, aren’t we the perceptive one.” The voice shifted lower, more sibilant. Horns sprouted from Neria’s head, her eyes turning black and glassy as the desire demon shed her mask. “She couldn’t make you happy. I can.”

“No… never. Leave me!” Cullen demanded, his voice cracking.

The demon’s tail lashed in irritation. “You will submit, in the end. You are too promising to waste like these others.” The rest of the illusion evaporated. The walls swam and expanded, becoming cold stone, overlaid by the violet light that contained him. The Circle Tower.  In the edge of his vision, the floor glistened red beneath him, but he refused to take his eyes from the demon. “I always did love a challenge,” she purred, stroking her clawed hand over the containment spell that held him as though it were a cherished pet. Recoiling from her, Cullen slipped and fell heavily, landing against something solid and wet: Beval’s corpse stared up at him in frozen horror, drying blood and viscera caked around the open mouth. Beside him lay Annlise, her frame nearly torn in half, her charred organs smeared around them. Cullen had defeated the fiery demon that had claimed her, his last act of defiance before he was trapped. Blood was everywhere. Some of it was probably his own: the side of his breastplate was scored open, the edges blackened, and a searing pain came with every movement – the wound must have been cauterised by the heat, or he would surely have bled to death by now.

He snatched his eyes away from the blood-soaked scene to look up at the demon again, dragging himself to his feet. But her form had shifted once more: Fenris stared back at him, a contrast of ghost-white hair and dusky black armour. Fenris braced his hands on the barrier, green eyes gleaming as he smirked. “I always get my way, Cullen.”

“Leave me!”

Cullen startled himself awake, panting for breath. He was sweating, a blanket twisted around him like a snare. He wrenched it off and threw it to the end of the bed. Even now, the dreams were so real, old memories feeding off new doubts.

“Cullen?” Dorian’s voice, not Fenris’ – of course not – floated up from the office below. “And here I thought you were a morning person.”

Cullen sat up, too quickly, and closed his eyes against the brief rush of dizziness. “Dorian? What’s happened?”

“I was wondering what had happened to you,” Dorian said, over the sound of his boots on the ladder as he climbed up. When he reached the top he paused, his gaze speculative as he looked at Cullen, and pursed his lips. “Well, you do make a fetching picture, Commander. A pity I’m spoken for.”

Cullen glanced down at himself, bare from the waist up, and felt a traitorous flush creep down his face and neck. Dorian laughed in delight. “Even more fetching! Do you know the blush goes all over?”

“How much have I overslept?” Cullen asked, getting to his feet and moving towards the chest in the corner. He rummaged through until he found a clean undershirt. For all Dorian’s habitual flirting, he was far short of ‘fetching’ currently: his scalp was damp, his skin tacky and sour with sweat.

“You probably won’t like the answer – it’s already mid-morning.”

Cullen cursed under his breath, hastening to pull his shirt on.

“Oh, never fear, Commander. It’s been snowing again, so nobody has been in the practice yards to miss your stalwart presence.” Dorian sighed somewhat theatrically. “You know I looked in on our customary table in the gardens, and a more dismal and frigid sight you never saw in your life. You could impale a man on the icicles hanging underneath it.”

Cullen managed a smile as he turned back to the mage, who had taken the liberty of perching on the edge of Cullen’s bed, one leg folded over the other. Then the smile faded as a thought occurred to him; he suddenly saw the opportunity to talk through this with someone who might actually be able to offer some insight. Discussing his problems was not at all Cullen’s strong suit, but Dorian was likely his best bet of helping him work out what real danger Fenris represented.

Dorian leaned forward in his seat, propping his chin up on his palm. “Why Commander, are you quite well? You look very serious all of a sudden.”

“Yes – quite well, sorry.” Cullen shifted his weight awkwardly. “Forgive me, I - it’s hard to know where to start…”

Dorian’s expressive brows came together, but his tone remained light: “Never fear, I’m sure the table will recover with time.”

Cullen gave a slightly strangled laugh. He took a steadying breath, leaning his back against the wall. “Dorian, is it possible that Fenris’ markings could… have an effect on others?”

Dorian’s eyes narrowed slightly. “On… you, for example?” All traces of levity gone, now. “What exactly has happened?”

Cullen sighed and sank down on the lid of the chest beside him. “You know more than most about lyrium withdrawal.” He rubbed his forehead. “And you have seen some of the effects in me. The Inquisitor certainly has.”

“Mmm,” Dorian assented. “Though, I am sure, not as many as you actually feel. I have seen mages trying to break lyrium addictions, in the Imperium – they were vocal enough about their suffering, and none of them were subject to anything like the doses your southern templars are.” His gaze danced away from meeting Cullen’s. “I try not to imagine how you must actually feel beneath all that charming stoicism.”

“I have never wanted it common knowledge,” Cullen acknowledged slowly. “It is… constant. Some days are better and some worse, and overall it’s gotten easier. But the pain is always there.” Cullen stood, turning to face the window. He didn’t want to see the pity he knew would be in his friend’s face. “Until yesterday, it was, anyway. After we helped Fenris… it was gone for the rest of the day. I didn’t even think of it at the time.” He braced his hands against the stone window ledge – then the image of the demonic Fenris’ similar posture in his dream hit him and he stepped back, shaking his head to clear it. "But last night it came back, the worst since the early weeks. I had to just about crawl across the battlements in the dark in search of elfroot. You would have been appalled at my appearance when I reached the infirmary.”

Dorian got to his feet and began to pace. “And you wonder if the lyrium might have transferred somehow, sating the need yesterday and then throwing you into a more acute withdrawal last night.”

“Yes, though that’s not the whole of it,” Cullen said carefully. Dorian stopped where he stood and turned back expectantly. “Fenris was awake in the infirmary when I got there. In truth I all but fell on him.” The mage winced, but Cullen ploughed on with the account: “He offered a hand to help me up, and as soon as he touched me, the pain… was gone. Just like that.” 

Dorian resumed his pacing, frowning as he rubbed his smooth jaw. “And has any pain returned yet?”

Cullen considered this, rolling his neck from one side to the other – an answering ache came across the space behind his eyes, the back of his skull, down his spine. Mild, as yet, nothing beyond what he would usually expect. “A little,” he acknowledged. “That’s all.”

“I think you should procure some elfroot suspension, just in case,” Dorian mused. “But it will surely take a few more instances of contact to be completely…” Something in Cullen’s face made him stop short of finishing his suggestion. He sat back on the bed, resuming his earlier post. “It’s possible,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t know all that much about the specifics of his condition. But as I understand it, Danarius was able to draw on the lyrium to renew mana – much the way a lyrium potion would. I’m not quite sure how, and it seems unlikely that one could do so by accident, but perhaps it is simply need – and contact. But could it feed an addiction, without being ingested? What mechanism would permit that? I would not leap to conclusions,” Dorian continued. “What if one is true without the other?”

Cullen frowned in confusion. “I don’t follow.”

“Well, it seems certain that being in contact with him calmed the effects of the withdrawal temporarily… but it doesn’t necessarily follow that the later increase in pain was also a direct result of said contact.” Dorian spread his hands expansively. “If it wasn’t – if you don’t have a corresponding increase this time around – perhaps you’ve even stumbled on a way to help manage the symptoms.”

Cullen stared at Dorian. To finish severing himself from the lyrium without the pain… “By the Maker.” Then he shook his head firmly. “No, it would make no difference. Even if it is possible… I can’t become reliant on anyone in this. Especially not someone who could leave between one day and the next.”

“He’s not going anywhere until the weather changes,” Dorian pointed out.

“The only sensible thing to do is to keep a safe distance,” Cullen finished stubbornly.

Dorian inclined his head. “Certainly for now, yes. Although – would you consider keeping a safe distance in the same room?” He sighed, leaning back on his palms where he sat. “I had some consultation with one of the senior mages this morning – one of, would you believe it, only four mages remaining in residence at Skyhold. As it so happens, I am the only one of the four with any Creation magic, underwhelming as it may be. The College of Enchanters our Divine Victoria has announced has been received very eagerly, I understand, and most of the Inquisition’s contingent went to join in the doubtlessly-endless debates about how best to proceed. If there’s one thing all mages love, it’s a good argument.” He smiled wryly across at Cullen, who breathed a sympathetic laugh. He knew that well enough – the bane of every Knight-Commander in every Circle in Thedas had been the inevitable passion of its First Enchanter for a vigorous discussion. Templars were generally men of action, not words.

“In any case,” Dorian went on, “I should go and see Fenris – if there is any more that magic can do, even from someone not a specialist in the area, it’s unfortunately solely on me. And since there’s a good chance he will be decidedly unreceptive to my ministrations… I hoped to borrow an armed escort, of sorts. Revem was planning to come, but Josephine has been keeping him busy with being Inquisitor all morning.”

Cullen sighed again. “I did promise to look in, too,” he said, remembering the blurted assurances he’d made to Fenris as he rushed out of the infirmary much earlier that morning. Then his mind turned again to his sweaty skin and hair; there was no way he could meet with anyone until he’d met with some hot water and soap. “Let me get cleaned up, and then I’ll meet you in the library shortly.”

Chapter Text

Cullen headed up the stairs towards the Skyhold keep a short while later, clean and dressed and fed. His hair was wet, chilled by the winter breeze, falling into curls around his hairline no matter how many times he scraped his hands back through it.

He passed beneath the arch of the vast double doors into Skyhold proper, and found Cassandra and Varric at the table in front of the fire - one sitting at each end with papers and quills and other writing accoutrements spread out on the surface between. It had taken a long time, but it seemed the wary truce between dwarf and seeker had finally resolved into something more closely resembling friendship. Cassandra was still working on her account of the Inquisitor's journey into the Fade, and perhaps some common ground had been enough to finally get them past the antagonistic circumstances of their first meeting - in any event, it was no longer an oddity to find them willingly sharing space. Varric had a battered notebook and quill in hand, and Cassandra was sorting a haphazard sheaf of notes into piles.

She glanced up at Cullen, giving him a nod of acknowledgement. “I have heard we are making a collection of the Champion’s compatriots,” she offered. “Should we be concerned at the presence of so many involved in the goings-on at Kirkwall? There will be no Qunari invasions or… explosions, I trust?”

“Why, Seeker, that was almost a joke!” Varric said, mock-scandalised. “A joke in somewhat poor taste, but a joke nevertheless.” She scowled at him, and he repaid it with a lazy grin. “Though if Rivaini makes an appearance, all bets are off.”

“I’m not sure Fenris plans to stay long,” Cullen cut in mildly.

Cassandra nodded, considering. “Varric has informed me of his concerns in regards to Fenris’ presence – though he says the possibility of any violent confrontation is slim, I will feel more assured once we know more.”

Though they did not always see eye to eye, she was one of Cullen’s closest friends. They were both practical, stubborn-minded warriors, who had spent much of their lives in the service of the Chantry. Both had witnessed the collapse of their once-proud orders, though his faith had wavered while hers was steadfast. Her faith in Cullen had been equally unshakeable: seeing a Commander in the deeply shaken Knight-Captain trying to salvage what he could amidst the Kirkwall chaos, seeing no risk of failure in his quest to be rid of lyrium. As much as her implacable nature had sometimes galled him along the way, there was no way he’d have come this far without her.

“I saw Fenris early this morning, very briefly,” Cullen explained. “He didn’t seem exactly – vengeful. But I’m going to speak with him again now… I’ll let you know what comes of it.”

Cassandra inclined her head, satisfied. “I would appreciate that.”

Cullen excused himself, leaving them to their respective work, and headed through the door by the fireplace to the stairwell. Upstairs, he found Dorian in his reading nook; the mage reclined in the oversized button-back chair, one ankle on the other knee to form a platform for a heavy, ancient-looking tome. Cullen didn’t recognise the script. Dorian was frowning down at the page, his left hand worrying at one end of his moustache while he traced the text with his right forefinger. He glanced up to see Cullen looking at him, and grinned. “The curls, Commander. You have no idea how adorable they are.”

Cullen rolled his eyes. “Yes, just the image I'm going for. The adorable Lion of Ferelden."

Dorian closed the book with a snap and dropped it to the floor beside the chair. “Ancient Tevene,” he explained. “Brushing up; the academic in me was slightly appalled when we had to bring in outside help with that draconic codex. Anyway,” he continued, getting to his feet, “shall we?”

This time, there was an attendant on duty when they arrived - a young woman Cullen recognised as the daughter of one of his veterans. She was hanging rolls of bandage to dry from a steaming pot beside her, and bowed to them when they entered.

Fenris was lying facing away from them, cocooned in blankets so only his white hair was visible. Anyone would have thought he was asleep, but at the sound of footsteps on the floor he glanced over his shoulder and hauled himself up to sitting. He was dressed in a simple nightshirt, and looked frail and wan despite his stern expression. The sight made Cullen feel oddly protective. Was it because he had saved Fenris, or because he was a surviving remnant of a life that was gone... nostalgia, of all things... ?

Fenris wasn’t listening, staring hard at Dorian with narrowed eyes. “You… what is your purpose here, altus?”

Dorian actually smiled. “At least someone knows the difference,” he murmured. “Dorian Pavus, at your service,” he declared, with a slight bow. “I am, unfortunately, the closest thing we have right now to a healing mage. I came to offer my help.”

Cullen expected a flash of anger, a spitting refusal. Fenris was obviously suspicious, still glaring at Dorian, but then his eyes slid to Cullen and he raised his eyebrows in a question.

Cullen nodded. “Dorian is a friend, and a valued member of the Inquisition. He’s proven himself over and again.”

“I assure you I only wish to assist. Though, I suppose I probably wouldn’t trust me either were I in your position,” Dorian acknowledged. “You’re certainly not alone. Down south when you say Tevinter mage you may as well have said child-stealing demon.”

“What a hardship for you,” Fenris snapped. Then he drew in a breath and let it out through gritted teeth. “I – apologise. Hawke is –” He stopped, swallowed, and tried again: “Hawke was always determined I should give people a chance.”

“I am… truly sorry for your loss,” Dorian said quietly. He moved a little closer to the bed, still hesitant. “Shall I take a look? I can’t promise I can do much more than I have, but I can at least try.”

Fenris looked like he wanted to refuse, but instead he slowly dragged the blankets away from his legs.

Dorian hissed in sympathy at the sight of Fenris’ feet, the toes livid orange-red and swollen out of shape. A double edge of blisters bordered the white lines on his lower shins, and the lyrium itself was overlaid by a thin layer of distended skin.

“Well this is a sad testament to my healing skills,” Dorian said morosely, settling himself carefully at the foot of the bed.

Cullen shook his head, approaching cautiously. “Believe me, it’s not. It could have been much worse.” He glanced at Fenris, but the elf was avoiding his eye. “You can still tell what limb you’re looking at, for one.”

Dorian was squinting at the damage, his expression faintly revolted – he reached out to gently touch the blistered lyrium where it traced down onto Fenris’ foot, and the elf recoiled with a gasped hiss of pain; every silver mark on his body flooded with brilliant blue light.

Dorian jerked back, his grey eyes wide in the glow. “Sorry!”

Fenris curled over himself, his breathing slowly coming back to normal as the light dimmed and flickered out.

Dorian was still staring at him. “I - sorry. I assumed the pain wasn’t too bad, that you'd taken something or…”

“He’s had a lot of practice hiding it,” Cullen said, somewhat thrown himself.

"I asked, Commander, I promise!" the attendant said, clutching a faintly-steaming strip of cloth to herself as she watched them wide-eyed. "He said he was all right..."

"It's okay, you did nothing wrong," Cullen told the girl, holding up his hand in a quelling gesture.

Fenris straightened again, his face composed aside from a certain betraying tension around his eyes and lips. “She offered," he confirmed, voice clipped with pain. "The markings always hurt to touch,” he said shortly, “The... frostbite... has made it much worse.”

"I - let me try to help." Dorian lifted his hands, frowning as the green web of threads that formed his healing magic spread out from his fingers.

He didn’t touch Fenris again, but as the magic flowed over and into the elf’s skin, Fenris’ breathing changed once more and it was obvious even the healing itself was causing him pain.

“It’s working,” Dorian said – and sure enough, the blistered skin was beginning to slowly lighten and retract. “Just hold on another minute.” A breathy groan escaped Fenris’ gritted teeth and he dropped his head forward, all the muscles in his neck corded from the tension in his frame.

Impulsively, Cullen stepped closer to the bed and grabbed hold of Fenris’ hand; the leather of his glove would have to be enough distance. The elf was trembling. Fenris looked down at their linked hands and back at Cullen, apparently too startled for a moment to think about the pain. Cullen scrambled for something to say, a distraction of any kind, and spoke as soon as he found a topic. “Do you remember that day in Kirkwall, when you and Hawke helped me deal with a possessed recruit, of all things? Wilmod?” Fenris didn’t acknowledge it, but he was still watching, so Cullen ploughed on: “Did you know your pirate friend came back to the Gallows that evening and… propositioned me? I was in the midst of working out how to explain to the Knight-Commander that our recruits had been deliberately possessed, and Isabela swaggers up to me and says…” he cleared his throat, “‘Just for the record, Knight-Captain, you can practice your interrogation techniques on me anytime’. And winked.”

Fenris actually laughed, though the sound was strangled.

“I think I was too baffled by her timing to even be interested in following her up on her offer,” Cullen shook his head.

“That sounds like her,” Fenris managed, his voice almost even again. “When she saw something she wanted, she was never shy about it. She used to amuse herself by trying to guess the colour of my smallclothes. She had little success.”

Dorian straightened, the green glow fading from his hands and a weak smile replacing the frown of concentration. “No? Why is that?”

Cullen glanced down at Fenris’ legs and feet – the skin around the lyrium lines was smooth tan again, and even the terrible blistering on his toes and upper feet had lessened.

“I don't wear any,” Fenris said with a shrug, and managed to grin at Cullen.

Cullen was slightly mortified to feel a light flush spread across his face; this close, there was no way Fenris didn’t see it too. He realised he was still holding the elf’s hand, and let it go – perhaps a little too quickly to be casual. He straightened up from the bed and cleared his throat again. Maker willing Dorian had missed the blush, but Cullen daren’t even look at him to confirm one way or another.

Fenris was apparently nonplussed. He bent forward with a little sigh, inspecting his shins and feet, and finally nodded to Dorian. “Thank you, altus,” he said, and if his expression wasn’t exactly warm, his gratitude at least seemed genuine. Fenris looked across at Cullen. “And you, Kn- Commander.”

“Just Cullen is fine.” Cullen shifted his weight, moving to put his hands on the pommel of his sword – which he wasn’t wearing, so he ended up resting them awkwardly across his stomach.

“You are most welcome,” Dorian said, with an amused glance at Cullen. “Though I’m not sure how much more I can do, unfortunately. It does concern me that the pain was so severe that the healing itself hurt.” 

The attendant brought over a small cup of familiar dark-green elfroot suspension, approaching the bed with some apprehension. She held it out to Fenris. "You really should drink this, serah. It will help."

Fenris hesitated, a stubborn set to his face, but took the cup. “Fine." He knocked it back like a shot, without even pulling a face at the bitter taste.

Cullen took a half step back from the bed and cleared his throat. “Fenris - the Inquisitor has offered to come speak to you, if you wish it."

Both of the other men started at that; Fenris straightened in his seat, eyes narrowing, and Dorian spun to fix Cullen with a somewhat stricken, accusatory expression.

Cullen turned to Dorian first. “You heard him yourself. He has to be informed.” Then he faced Fenris. “Assuming you want him to come, he’ll be here.”

“I do.” There was a hard edge to Fenris' expression.

Dorian blew out a breath, rounding on the foot of the bed. “Fenris, please know that I am fully understanding of the incredibly difficult and painful situation you have been put in, and my condolences and wish to help are very sincere. Your former master was one of the most despicable men I have ever had the displeasure to meet, and I was delighted to hear of his demise. I was also deeply grieved by Hawke’s fate; we all were. I even understand your anger at the Inquisitor – though I must stress the fact that he would never willingly have done any harm to Hawke.” He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again the grey of his irises was flinty. He drew himself up to his full height. “But so help me, if you harm Revem, I will make you regret it. You will see me be every inch the dread Tevinter magister so many here expected of me.” He turned abruptly away from the bed and stalked towards the door, shutting it behind him with a bang.

Fenris gazed coolly in that direction for a moment. “Your Inquisitor… commands a great deal of loyalty,” he said at length.

“He does,” Cullen began, shifting his weight, unsure how best to explain in the circumstances. He shrugged helplessly and changed tack. “Varric seemed to think it was possible, at least, you were here for revenge. He didn’t want to believe it.” Cullen hesitated, then added: “Why are you here, Fenris? You must realise Dorian is far from the only one in Skyhold who’s protective of the Inquisitor.”

Fenris ran a hand back through his silvery white hair, tilting his head back, then sighed as he let them fall to the bed again. “Honestly, I could not say.” He was silent for a moment, his green eyes staring into the middle distance. “I had been hunting down the last of a group of slavers operating along the coast near Ostwick. I came back to find Hawke gone. There was a note - things had gotten dangerous with the templars, but he had a lead on the red lyrium. He was far too vague about it all; he knew I would have followed if I’d known where.” He shook his head fiercely, his eyes bright. “He should have let me… even if I could not have prevented it, at least…” Fenris trailed off with a frustrated grunt, and took a slow breath in as he regathered himself. Finally, he went on: “For weeks I remained in Kirkwall and waited for him to come back, like a fool. I assisted Aveline, and even Merrill – attempting to distract myself. But there was no sign of him. And then, Varric’s letter came, and there was no reason to stay in Kirkwall anymore. I couldn’t stay in Kirkwall, every damned street full of memories of him. I had no particular destination in mind – I just left. Before I knew it, I was headed here.” He finally met Cullen’s gaze, and there was so much pain and loss and anger in his face it felt like a physical blow. “I just want to understand how this happened. To understand what he died for. And who.” Fenris’ hands were balled up, his lips pressed into a tight line.

Cullen paced back and forth along the bed, thinking. “Hawke's death is... one of my greatest regrets,” he said. “And I know for a fact the Inquisitor feels the same way. But you can’t place all the weight of that outcome on his shoulders – many factors led up to the way Adamant ended. If we had broken the siege earlier, and stopped Erimond before he summoned that blasted dragon…” Cullen stopped pacing, meeting Fenris’ eyes again. The elf watched him thoughtfully, his expression unreadable. Cullen was struck again at how slight and frail Fenris looked, tendrils of long hair falling into his face once more. Cullen bowed his head. “I wish to the Maker we had.”

He turned away, feeling like he couldn’t stay in the room a moment longer. “I will go and inform the Inquisitor you are waiting.”

Outside the infirmary door, Cullen found Varric hovering in the hallway. The dwarf looked as preoccupied as Cullen felt, but he managed an embarrassed half-smile which didn’t quite stick. “It’s stupid, I know, but – we haven’t seen each other face-to-face since…” He threw his hands up and turned resolutely towards the door. “No time like the present, I suppose.” Cullen clapped him on the shoulder as he passed and went in search of Revem.

Chapter Text

Revem was seated on the spiked throne of the Inquisition, a serious expression on his fine-boned face as he listened to Josephine read out a list of charges. Standing in irons between a pair of burly guards was a sandy-haired, paunchy, rather nondescript man. Perhaps that had aided in his crime, since he stood accused of stealing lyrium from the Inquisition’s slender reserves to smuggle out of Skyhold when the thaw came. The accused was no templar: Cullen might have had more sympathy if he was.

Revem leaned against the back of the throne, bringing his fingertips together beneath his chin. “Tavris Hann, you will be imprisoned until the end of winter, and then you will leave Skyhold. You are no longer welcome in the Inquisition.”

The prisoner was escorted away, protesting loudly. The sentence was deceptively lenient: Cullen imagined the cells would be a very uncomfortable place to spend the remainder of the cold weather, and the thought gave him a sense of grim satisfaction. The Inquisition retained only a few templars, having been too late to intervene in the madness at Therinfal Redoubt after untangling the plight of the mages at Redcliffe. Those templars who had joined in the aftermath of the Conclave had borne much, having witnessed their fellows corrupted by red lyrium and cut down in battle, the total collapse of the Order as they once knew it – and finally, with Divine Victoria’s formal dissolution of the Circles, the loss of their place in the world. Without the lyrium stores – well, Cullen knew better than anyone how it felt to be without it. He would not wish that on anyone unwilling; the Templars who served the Inquisition had been through enough.

The thin crowd watching dispersed, as Revem rubbed his eyebrows wearily. Cullen could see Dorian leaning in a pretense at casualness beside the door to the Undercroft.

Cullen approached the lower steps of the dais. “Inquisitor…”

Revem looked up and smiled slightly, but then a thunderous crash drew all heads snapping around as the main doors to the hall slammed open.

Fenris strode into the room, fury in every line of his body. The lyrium markings tracing his form burned lightning-bright, visible even through the fabric of his borrowed nightshirt. “Inquisitor!” he snarled. Wisps of snow drifted in behind him.

Varric scrambled up the stairs in the elf’s wake. “Such a flair for the dramatic, Broody!” he called. “There’s really no need…”

Revem rose from his seat, making a quelling gesture to the guard beside him who had begun to draw his sword. He turned to Fenris. “I was about to come and see you,” he said, his voice calm and his face earnest, despite the tension in his frame.

Fenris stopped, his eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched. “You chose to leave him,” he bit out. He looked like a vengeful spirit, a figure blazing with anger and light.

Revem hesitated. “It was not as simple as that,” he said slowly.

“Oh? Then it was not your decision to leave Hawke to die?” Fenris challenged, his hands clenching into fists.

“No, I…” Revem stopped, his features twisting with regret. He bowed his head. “It was.”

Fenris threw his head back and let out a sound that was barely human, half-growl, half-cry, both anguish and anger. The lyrium blazed even brighter, light threading over his form until it was impossible to make out his flesh beneath it; he truly appeared the lyrium ghost Dorian had called him. He seemed to blur as he charged at Revem, faster than was possible, faster than the eye could even follow.

Cullen was a strategist, a proven leader. But beneath all that he still carried the instincts hammered into him by years of training under the yoke of the Chantry. Even when there was no time to think, his training forced him to react. Now his superior was threatened, and he reacted; he leapt between Revem and Fenris.

The impact was like being struck by a force spell; he was hurled backwards to crash against the stone floor, the breath knocked from his lungs. He careened backwards into the base of the dais, Fenris sprawled beside him. Cullen forced himself up and rolled rapidly to pin Fenris against the floor. He dragged in scraps of air in shallow, juddering gasps, trying to get enough breath to speak.

The elf stared up at him, eyes wide with shock and still reflecting the lyrium’s blue-white light.

But Fenris wasn’t glowing anymore.

Cullen was.

Cullen scrambled to his feet, backing away, startled horror forcing a full breath into his chest at last. He looked down at himself; the glowing aura slowly dissipated as he watched, sinking beneath his skin.

A faint burn chased the hum of lyrium through Cullen's skin, bringing with it a memory from long ago: his first lyrium, which was no philter at all, but an infusion placed directly against the skin as his fellow Templars held him steady. A trial-by-fire, or so it felt, after which he was fully part of the Order... and fully leashed to it. This was a candle to the inferno of that first exposure - but after everything he had worked for, to sense that once more, he had to draw on every ounce of self-control to keep from panicking.

His knees gave way and he staggered, but Varric caught hold of him before he fell. “Whoa, steady, Curly.” The dwarf frowned up at him. “Perhaps you should sit down – you’re white as a sheet. Can’t say I’m surprised though after that…” Cullen pulled himself slowly upright again, focussing on his own breathing and Varric’s voice.

And then he could feel it, a faint but familiar rush of power hissing along his veins. It felt so good, the relief indescribable... and so repugnant, all at once. He had been dying of thirst, and the lyrium was cool water - but he knew the water was poisoned.

Dorian advanced on Fenris, but Revem intercepted him neatly. The last remnants of a glimmering blue barrier were fading out around the Inquisitor; Dorian must have reacted nearly as quickly as Cullen himself. Revem spoke in an undertone, gently turning Dorian’s face to look at his own.

“You know,” Varric went on, stepping away from Cullen with a nod, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Fenris run into someone. Honestly, when he does that ghost shit, he usually runs straight through people. Like they’re not even there.” Cullen shook his head, trying to clear it and concentrate on Varric’s words, but his heart was pounding in his ears and his blood seethed with energy. He felt like he was teetering on the edge of… something bad. Panicking, breaking down, smashing the place with a pillar of holy fire.

Then he looked at Fenris, still sprawled on the floor, still watching him; their eyes met, and hopeless resignation was written openly across the elf’s face. And – Cullen frowned, jolted out of his own head as though he’d been struck – Fenris was bleeding, his bare feet gleaming red and ragged with split blisters. There was blood smeared across the floor where he had fallen, and now Cullen could see the trail of bloody footprints that led through the centre of the room and onto the snow-dusted landing. The elf was holding one arm folded protectively against his chest, and a reddish bruise was already forming over one high cheekbone. A shallow gash beneath his jaw leaked blood down his throat - he must have struck one of the curved points of Cullen's breastplate.

At once, Cullen felt clear again; seeing a purpose, a problem to be solved outside himself. He approached Fenris, not without difficulty: one knee and hip twinged sharply with every step. Falling onto a stone floor in half plate was not an experience to be recommended. He winced as he crouched beside the elf; Fenris bowed his head, now avoiding Cullen’s eyes.

“Do you think you’ve gotten the urge to attack the Inquisitor out of your system, then?” Cullen asked quietly.

“I… can’t imagine it will matter.” Fenris tucked the arm in a little tighter to his chest, frowning. “There can be no solving this.”

“Were you trying to kill him?”

Fenris hesitated, and shook his head. “No. He would not have walked away unscathed, but he would have walked away – even without your intervention.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Revem said, stepping up beside them. Dorian glowered down at Fenris from behind Revem’s shoulder. Whatever reactions – or repercussions – Fenris expected, it wasn’t this: he peered up at the Inquisitor, distrustful, thrown, clearly waiting for the inevitable backlash.

Revem gave a rueful smile. “I’ll be honest: if it will help atone for any of this, I’ll happily take that beating. But we must speak – now more than ever,” the Inquisitor said firmly.

“Why would you do this?” Fenris demanded. “How can you be such a fool? You cannot know that I didn’t mean to kill you – and you choose to give me another opening? Why?”

“Because as you say,” Revem said sadly, “you are here because I made a choice. One I did not want to make, but did nevertheless. It may not help anything, but it seems you understand less of what happened than I believed – I want to explain. I can do that much. From there, we can decide together what must be done next. Besides,” he finished, looking to Dorian rather apologetically, “Dorian and Cullen will be ready to step in, if need be.”

“Oh of course, that makes me feel so much better,” Dorian muttered.

Fenris looked unconvinced, suspicious, but he eventually shrugged his agreement helplessly. "I will take my chances. I... need to know.”

Revem nodded. “Of course. I will ask Josephine to let us use her sitting room – it's right next door. Can you stand?”

“Yes,” Fenris said, just as Cullen cut in: “No.”

Fenris frowned at Cullen, who clicked his tongue irritably. “If you hadn’t noticed, your feet are covered in holes – not to mention you just walked over snow with frostbite, which is about the worst thing you could do for it. If it goes septic now, you could end up crippled; I’ve seen it before.”

Fenris looked conflicted, a muscle in his jaw flexing rhythmically. At length he inclined his head. “Fine. I cannot walk, then.”

Dorian looked vaguely – very vaguely, beneath the lingering anger and concern – amused.

Cullen hesitated a moment, feeling obligated to aid Fenris now that he had been so insistent - but he could not bring himself to get any nearer, not with the fading thrum of lyrium through his body as a reminder. He was relieved when Revem gestured to two of his soldiers to assist, though he didn't miss the way Fenris flinched away when they touched him. 

Chapter Text

Fenris slouched in his chair, face impassive as he listened to Revem explain the events of Adamant. The Inquisitor spoke in a low voice, leaning forward towards the other elf, his air that of a man confessing his sins as he explained Erimond’s scheme and Clarel’s misjudgement, Corypheus’ false Archdemon, the plummet from the broken ramparts. The portal, and the Fade, and the Nightmare.

Josephine had rounded up a pair of wooden stools as if by magic before she tactfully excused herself, but Cullen preferred to stand; he fought the urge to pace the room. Of course he had heard Revem’s account of the Fade before, but it would never sit easily with him. Varric and Dorian had both been there, along with Solas - the elf had seemed captivated, even excited, by the experience, but Cullen could not share his fascination.

Varric leaned against the wall beside the door, fidgeting with an old cast-off part from his beloved crossbow; Dorian perched on one of the stools, so close to the fire Cullen was half-expecting the hem of his robe to catch any moment. The mage’s attitude was deceptively casual, but Cullen knew him well enough to read the tension in his frame. He had healed Fenris’ fractured arm and sealed over the blistered feet well enough to at least stop the bleeding; anger made him even more caustic than usual, but he wasn’t the sort to leave someone to suffer.

“Hawke or Alistair – either would have been an awful choice.” Revem scraped the unbraided side of his hair back behind one delicately pointed ear. His red hair gleamed copper in the firelight. “The Champion of Kirkwall, or the warden who helped kill the Archdemon – who could have been King of Ferelden. In the end, it was only that Hawke offered first.”

Fenris was perfectly still, but his knuckles whitened as his hand tightened its grip on the arm of his chair.

Revem watched him, brows knitted with concern. “It should have been me, but if I’d stayed behind–”

“The rift would have stayed open, and we would have had no way of closing it or any of the others,” Dorian said grimly, half-turning in his seat. “Corypheus would have won, and by now we’d all be neck-deep in demons and abominations, or sacrificed for blood magic, or being slowly consumed by red lyrium. No-one in Thedas would have escaped him.” His eyes were distant, and Cullen knew what he was thinking of: only Dorian and Revem had seen first-hand what would truly have come to pass if Corypheus wasn’t thwarted. “Hawke – and all the others who died in this war – gave us the chance to stop it.”

After a moment, Fenris gave a low sigh, easing off his death grip on the chair. “I suppose I am not surprised. Hawke was… truly, a champion of the people. Always ready to put himself in danger’s way for those who needed him.” He paused, and when he spoke again his deep voice was gravelly: “Perhaps it was inevitable. Perhaps this was… a fitting way for such a man to die.”

“It should never have come to that,” Revem said sadly.

“But it did, and I… should not blame you.” Fenris let his head drop forward, silent again, considering. The atmosphere in the room was sombre as a funeral. Finally, Fenris spoke again: “In the end, the person I want absolution from is not you, but Hawke himself. For disappearing, and dying, without me at his side.” His face was hidden behind a screen of white hair. “I… I needed him, too.”

Revem’s eyes strayed to Dorian, who returned the look gravely. The Inquisitor slumped against the high back of his seat. “He wanted to protect you, he said.”

Fenris clicked his tongue in irritation at that.

It was Varric who responded: “All the worst things that happened in Hawke’s life? Happened to people he loved. His sister, and brother – and mother. He sailed through every insane situation he got himself into unscathed, but he had to watch those closest to him die along the way.” Varric shrugged a little, holding out his broad calloused hands in a gesture of appeal. “I bet when he left he thought all the bullshit with the red lyrium and the templars turning on him was going to be another problem he could solve with a pair of daggers and his amazing good luck and he’d be back within the week. That was how it usually worked with him, you know that – this was only the last in a long history of ‘Hawke accidentally stumbles upon crazy evil scheme’ story arcs.” Varric chuckled and tipped his head back, glancing at the ceiling, but the mirth faded from his face as he looked back to Fenris. “You know, I’m sure that until those very last moments he had no doubt at all he’d be home with you, telling you the whole story himself.”

Fenris’ face twisted into a grimace, his eyes squeezed shut, his lips trembling. He swiped his hand across his face roughly, forcing himself back under control.

“Fenris, I want to help,” Revem said carefully. “If I can. What can I do?”

Fenris was silent for a minute, the room waiting for his answer. Finally, took in a shuddering breath and cleared his throat.

“Give me… a purpose,” he said, and though his voice was a little gruffer than usual it was also determined. “The whole course of my life has been decided by others. Now, there is no – master, or pursuer, or leader. And I am… adrift.” He raised his eyes to meet Revem’s. “But Hawke thought your cause worth dying for, and perhaps that is direction enough. I could assist the Inquisition.”

Revem looked surprised, but he didn’t hesitate. “Of course." He inclined his head. “I would be honoured.”

Dorian turned back to the fire, though he said nothing; from Cullen’s vantage point, he could see the mage’s conflicted expression.

“There is another thing I had planned to do,” Revem went on, getting to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I must retrieve something from my quarters. I’ll be back in a moment.”

As the door closed behind him, Varric pushed away from the wall and came across to Fenris’ chair.

“For what it’s worth - I’m sorry that I didn’t give you all the facts in the beginning.” The dwarf scratched his head, looking abashed. “I wasn’t trying to be cagey. When I wrote you that letter, well. I wasn’t in a good way. I couldn’t honestly tell you what I did put in it.”

Fenris straightened a little, wincing as he shifted his tender feet. “I wasn’t in a good way after reading it,” he admitted flatly. “I spent the better part of a week emptying Hawke’s wine cellar. For that to be the first I heard of him…” he didn’t finish the sentence, turning his head to the side and down firmly. When he looked up, he stared straight at Cullen. “How did you stop me, out there?”

Cullen shifted uncomfortably under that green-eyed gaze, feeling a little like prey cornered unexpectedly by a hunter. “I… got in front of you?”

Varric let out a single low laugh. “I told you, Curly – he goes straight through people. I’ve seen him put his hand into someone and tear out vital organs, oh, dozens of times. He doesn’t run into anyone.”

“It was like the lyrium just – stopped.” Fenris looked down at himself briefly, extending one arm to peer at the lines weaving across it before letting it drop back onto the chair. “Danarius had… spells, that could do that, but it felt different.”

“Well, hurling yourself into an obstacle does give a distinctive feeling. I think ‘ouch’ sums it up fairly well,” Varric quipped.

“Not compared to Danarius’ methods,” Fenris said bleakly. Dorian glanced over his shoulder at Fenris, frowning, then looked up at Cullen.

“I have… well, there are possibilities.” Cullen honestly didn’t want to think about it at all. He had been effectively distracted with his concern for Revem and Fenris, and sadness for Hawke and the others lost, but there was still the distant sensation of lyrium humming away beneath the motion of his breath and blood; giving it his attention brought that rising sense of panic once more. “Forgive me, it’s not the easiest thing to discuss. You remember that, in Kirkwall I was–”

The door opened, and Revem came back in. He held a small stoppered bottle of amber liquid, that cast a slight golden glow against his hand. “Is that a… regeneration potion?” Cullen asked, extremely relieved for the interruption.

“Yes, a very potent one,” Revem confirmed. “Elfroot and rashvine. It has been brewing since yesterday.”

“Rashvine?” Cullen frowned. “That’s not easy to come by. I didn’t know we kept any in the stores.”

Dorian snorted. “The Inquisitor has his own stores. Turned a perfectly serviceable walk-in vintner’s closet into a pantry for drying all the herbs he carries back in his pockets.” He shook his head in mock-disapproval. “Unspeakable.”

Revem clicked his tongue. “Well, I am Dalish; we pick them when we find them. In this case I think my ‘unspeakable’ habits have served us well.” He held the potion out to Fenris. “This should completely heal you. It won’t take long.”

Fenris hesitated for a moment, looking at the glowing bottle and then at the elf holding it, before he reached out to take the potion. “My thanks.” He squinted at Revem, assessing him. “I admit you are not what I expected, Inquisitor. I suppose I should have had more faith in Hawke’s choice of ally, despite the way it ended.” He uncorked the potion and downed it in one long draught. Cullen was impressed to see the elf’s face remain impassive; rashvine had one of the most revolting flavours of any herb.

After a moment, a weak shimmer of green-tinged gold began to ripple over Fenris’ skin, in time with his heartbeat. The light was particularly bright around his feet, and Cullen could see the swelling and blisters receding as he watched; within moments, his feet were whole again, the bloody smears left on his skin the only sign that they had ever been injured. Fenris stood carefully, shifting his weight from foot to foot experimentally.

“Yep, another thing the Herald has a definite knack for,” Varric remarked.

Fenris nodded solemnly, meeting Revem’s eyes. “I will repay your generosity.”

Revem smiled, but there was a certain sadness about it. “There is nothing to repay – there will never be.” He reached out for the empty bottle, then caught Fenris’ extended hand between both of his own and clasped it firmly. “Welcome to the Inquisition, Fenris.” With that, he took the bottle and left.

The potion’s glow was fading away from Fenris now. He bent his leg to lift one foot off the floor, turning the sole inwards to inspect it. “A knack indeed,” he murmured.

Varric stretched and gave an exaggerated sigh. “Well, normally I’d say it’s a little early, but in the circumstances I think a drink is in order.”

“Make it four or five drinks and we might just be talking,” Dorian said, straightening from his seat by the fire.

“Or a bottle,” Fenris added.

Varric grinned. “Well look at that, a mutual interest.”

Fenris made a non-committal noise, looking down at his nightshirt with distaste. “First, clothing. Then, drinking.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” Varric agreed.

Usually, Cullen tried not to drink to excess. It made the headaches worse, and often the nightmares along with it. He didn’t spend much time in the tavern; being in the public eye meant yet more keeping up appearances in front of his troops and foreign dignitaries and all the rest. But today, trying so hard not to think it was giving him a headache itself, an afternoon of drinking sounded better than it ever had.

Chapter Text

The sun was still out, peering down from between drifting white clouds. Though it did little to change the frigid temperature, sunlight and a hint of blue sky made for a pleasant change from the wintry gloom. Dorian and Varric went on to the tavern, while Cullen accompanied Fenris back to the infirmary in search of his clothing. Fenris walked stiffly in a pair of boots borrowed from Revem – at Dorian’s insistence – until he could reclaim his own. They were not a great fit, but at least his freshly sealed feet were protected from the snow.

The young healer was seated at the table, grinding some pungent mixture with a mortar and pestle. One of the cots had also been filled in their absence; a woman in scout’s clothing lay insensible by the far wall, an impressive purple-red knot forming on her temple.

When she glanced up from her work and saw it was Fenris, she leapt out of her chair so fast it tipped backwards and crashed to the floor. “Maker! There you are – I’ve never seen anyone in such a state.” She shook her head, wiping her hands briskly on her apron. “You shouldn’t be on your feet, messere. Andraste save you if those blisters turn bad…”

 “There’s no need for concern – I am fine.” Fenris explained calmly. “The Inquisitor made a potion.” He worked off one of the borrowed boots, turning his foot so she could see the proof of his statement.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “He what? I was so sure you were going to get an arrow through the eye before anything else, charging up there like that.”

Fenris dipped his head. “It was… ill-considered, yes.” He tugged the boot back into place.

The girl opened her mouth, then closed it again and looked to Cullen, who chuckled. “That’s perhaps something of an understatement.” Cullen’s expression sobered. “Everything has been sorted out with the Inquisitor, don’t worry. I’ll get this one out of your hair before he has a chance to alarm anyone further, if you can just find where his things have been stowed.”

“Very well, Commander - as you say.” She moved towards them, righting her chair as she passed, and grabbed her cloak from a peg on the wall. “Your armour was sent to be cleaned, I believe; I’ll duck across and ask after it.” She hesitated a moment, looking Fenris up and down with amazement. “Maker, but he does good work! I wonder if he could give me some tips on making those potions.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and the room was quiet and still for a moment. Then Fenris turned to Cullen, face intent. “You were explaining, earlier – you said something about Kirkwall. In Kirkwall, you were…”

Cullen sighed and leaned his hip against the wall. “I was a templar. You know what gives templars their abilities, I assume?”

Fenris narrowed his eyes slightly. “Lyrium.”

“Yes, and a lot of it. It allows them to prevent a mage accessing the Fade, among other things.” Cullen scratched his head with both hands. “It also slowly destroys the Templar’s mind. I stopped taking it when I left Kirkwall.” He let his hands drop, straightening. “I couldn’t be bound to that life anymore.”

“Can you simply… stop?” Fenris looked doubtful. “No former templar I’ve met had given away lyrium. That Samson,” he said the word with a certain distaste, “was always after more.”

The name sent a stab of old hurt through Cullen; obviously Fenris didn’t know what the man had gone on to be. “That is the main way the Chantry retains their loyalty – they supply lyrium, and the templars cannot do without it. The effects of lyrium withdrawal are… significant.” Ironically, Samson had professed himself driven by the same distaste for the Chantry’s methods as had caused Cullen to leave the Order – in his darker moments, Cullen had wondered what might have happened it if had been an emissary of Corypheus, and not Cassandra, that approached him in the aftermath of the Gallows’ destruction.

Fenris was silent a moment, his eyes sharp as he watched Cullen. “And so you know much about keeping pain hidden.”

“I suppose,” Cullen acknowledged quietly. “Though still not as much as you, I feel.”

Fenris ignored this, frowning somewhat distantly. “You had a headache. That was from lyrium withdrawal?”

“Ah. Yes.” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “They are part of it, though that one was particularly bad.”

“It went away when I helped you up.” Fenris’ gaze travelled down his own arm to his hand. “The markings – they affect you somehow?”

Cullen nodded, impressed by the elf’s perceptiveness. “I think so.” He hesitated, before continuing: “No, I know so. Being in contact with you eases the withdrawal. But to be honest, I found that… worrying, since it’s possible – well.” Cullen pivoted until his back was against the wall, leaning against it in a pretense of ease. In truth his pulse was high and his throat was tight, as though he was admitting to a grave wrongdoing. “After I brought you in yesterday, the headache was gone until nightfall. But when it came back it was much more severe, worse than it had been in months. I wondered if that was because of being exposed to lyrium again – even if not ingested. Dorian wasn’t convinced, but until I know for sure what happened I should – I need to, avoid any more contact.” It was hard to look at Fenris’ face, and the concern there. Cullen found this reversal of their earlier situation far less comfortable – he would much rather assist with another’s problems than discuss his own. He cleared his throat, and went on: “Today, you said that the lyrium ‘stopped’. I think its power transferred from you to me, somehow – I felt as though I had taken it again. I’m not even sure what will happen now,” he finished. A disquieting echo of that power still thrummed through him. It had almost faded, now, thank Andraste – the days were gone when he could have found any thrill in the sensation – but he dreaded what may follow.

“It was one reason Danarius did this to me,” Fenris murmured slowly, an old anger drifting across his face as he dropped his gaze. “He could draw from the lyrium - if his mana were drained. I did not realise it possible for a templar to do so.”

“Most templars would never need to – they have almost as much lyrium in their body as you do. Far more than they really need to perform their duties,” Cullen explained, voice carefully neutral. “And you don’t meet many templars who’ve stopped taking it, so it’s probably not surprising it hasn’t happened before. Cut off, most die, or lose their minds – those who live, you’d never recognise for templars.”

Fenris began to pace, turning rapidly on his heel at the end of each pass like a caged animal. “Most die - and yet you have survived it, endured this for a year, and stayed yourself against such odds. You believe contact with me a threat to that. Why then – why help me?” He stared hard at Cullen. “You held my hand, of all things, even thinking it could undo all of this. Why?”

Cullen had asked himself the same question. There were so many parts to the answer; he pitied Fenris, and admired him, and envied him. The elven warrior was a part of Cullen’s past, with a haunted past of his own, whose future had been changed forever by Hawke’s involvement with the Inquisition. But it was ultimately simpler than all of that.

“You needed help,” Cullen said quietly. “And, besides...” He dragged his fingers back through his hair, averting his eyes. “In our time in Kirkwall, you and Hawke stuck out your necks for me more than once.”

“Wilmod laughs, fear fading too fast,” Cole said behind them, making them both startle and scrabble for weapons they weren’t wearing. “Wretched and wrong, demon knots twisting around him. Maker preserve us.” The boy sat on one of the empty beds, leaning forward so his oversized hat hid his eyes from view. He looked up at Cullen curiously. “The fear pulled at old wounds. You were very brave.”

“Cole.” Cullen rubbed his forehead, waiting for his heartbeat to slow again. The memory wasn’t a good one – Wilmod’s warped face had featured more than once in his nightmares of the Circle Tower. “Yes. I’m sure Fenris remembers.”

“He does,” Cole agreed, turning his gaze from Cullen to Fenris.

“Who is he?” Fenris demanded, backing up a step.

“I’m Cole.” The former spirit replied simply, cocking his head to one side like a bird as he watched Fenris. “It… hurts, but you hold the hurt hard; the last you have of him.” He frowned. “I’m sorry. I want to help, but I can’t anymore. You wouldn’t have let me anyway.”

Fenris just stared at him.

“He’s – it’s complicated. But he's part of the Inquisition,” Cullen managed. There had always been a measure of disagreement about Cole’s origins. Whatever had happened on his sojourn with Varric, Solas and the Inquisitor had changed him further; he seemed closer to a person, now, though still very far from normal – especially in moments like this. “He really does want to help – but I think it would be better left alone, Cole.”

“It was easier before.” Cole said, sounding slightly put out. He dug in his pocket and pulled out a bright green feather, which he lay gently on the blanket beside the injured soldier. “Everything is more complicated now.” He smiled faintly. “It is better, though. I am more me. And I will still help, if I find a way.” Then he stood and moved towards the door, feet soundless on the stone floor, and out into the snow.

“Well, I supposed it’s an improvement on vanishing,” Cullen muttered.

Fenris glowered at him, then shook his head firmly. “I think I’d rather not know.” The silence stood for a moment, before the elf’s stance finally relaxed and he turned back to Cullen. “You have changed, since Kirkwall. I thought it was the Inquisition – a new purpose, as you say – but maybe it is the lyrium. In any event, it is a good change. Back then, I saw the same kind of shadows in you that I carried myself. Although, your temper was mostly more controlled than my own.” He gave a self deprecating smile, but it didn't stick. “It would be poor repayment of your help to put you at any risk,” he said decidedly. “It will not happen again.”

There was an awkwardness, now; Cullen was glad to have cleared the air, but also sorry – he had the strangest urge to tell Fenris it was all a mix-up, and he didn’t care about the risk the lyrium posed, but he couldn’t for the life of him decide why.

It was a relief when the door swung open and Ellie backed into view, struggling under a bulky canvas bundle. “Here we are! All cleaned and good as new, Harritt says.” She laid down the package of armour on the nearest bed, stepping back so Fenris could inspect it. “Oh – and you can pick up your sword when you’re ready. I’ve no notion how you can even carry that thing, let alone swing it! I wasn’t game to try.”

Fenris nodded appreciatively as he began to check the pieces. “Thank you.”

Cullen waited outside for Fenris. When the elf emerged, it was something of a shock to see him once more in his customary black leathers and spiked gauntlets. Despite the small changes – winter boots and cloak, long hair bound back in an untidy knot, his narrower frame – it was once more Hawke’s impassive warrior companion who stood there. Cullen could almost forget how many years had passed, and that the Champion Fenris had once followed was no more. 

“You look – yourself again,” he remarked quietly, trying to ignore the tension in the air.

“I feel it.” Fenris looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers inside their claw-like surrounds. “It is – more of a relief than I expected.”

Cullen felt suddenly sheepish. It was rare these days for him to even take note of a beautiful face; he had been too sick, and then too busy for such pursuits. But Fenris was particularly striking - all dark skin, silver hair and gleaming tattoos against his black armour, with those improbably green eyes vivid in his face - and Cullen wasn't blind.

Clearly just stupid, given what had transpired that day.

Cullen coughed, averting his gaze. “Shall we?” he inclined his head towards the tavern, and led the way.

Inside the Herald’s Rest they found Dorian and Varric seated at the bar; Varric was chatting to the reticent Corff, while the mage inspected the label of a bottle of wine. Dorian glanced behind them as they entered and waved a distracted hand in greeting, and Varric beckoned them over. Out of the corner of his eye Cullen saw movement from behind the stairs: Bull straightened from his bench seat and ambled in their direction, his expression curious.

Fenris watched impassively as the enormous tal-vashoth approached.

Bull jerked his chin up in greeting. “I’m The Iron Bull. Captain of the Bull’s Chargers mercenary company.” He grinned, baring white teeth. “Fenris, right?”

“Yes.” Fenris didn’t seem at all surprised to be recognised; but then, he had been a main character in one of Varric’s best sellers, and his appearance was too distinctive to avoid notice.

“We’ve met before,” Bull remarked, rubbing at his lower lip with the pad of one large grey thumb. “In a manner of speaking.”

Fenris paused, and shook his head slightly. “I apologise, but I do not recall.”

“It was in Seheron, a few years back now.” Bull shifted his weight, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “You were that Danarius asshole’s slave bodyguard.”

From the way Fenris whole frame tensed up, Cullen assumed that was not part of Varric’s book. “You must take on some interesting contracts to take you as far as Seheron,” the elf said cautiously.

“Nah. Wouldn’t take my boys into that mess for all the gold in Orlais.” Bull shrugged, nonchalant. “I was stationed there under the Qun, nearly ten years.”

A shock of recognition went through Fenris, and his eyes narrowed. “You… that attack at the docks.”

Bull chuckled. “Yup. The vints make it a habit of stirring up unrest in Seheron; assassinations, poisonings, riots. Danarius was particularly vicious; had to stop it one way or another. But my intel on you wasn’t what it should have been.” Bull smiled again, gesturing to a thick grey scar on his upper shoulder. “Never seen anyone so fast in a fight. Damn near took my arm off.” He nodded appreciatively. “Glad to see you made it out of there alive.”

“No thanks to you,” Fenris muttered, squinting up at Bull thoughtfully. “You had two eyes, then.”

Varric looked between the two of them in delighted disbelief. “Oh, I have got to hear this story,” he declared. “But first, I believe I owe the broody elf a drink.”

“Better make it a bottle, Varric,” Fenris instructed, still eyeing Bull as the tal-vashoth took a nonchalant sip from his tankard. “And a good one at that.”

Varric winced, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Fine, fine. I deserve that.” He headed to the bar, reaching into his coat for his coin purse. “I’ll see what Sparkler’s decided on. And I’m ordering food, too – you look like you haven’t eaten a proper meal since the last time I saw you.”

Bull’s gaze travelled down Fenris’ frame. “Still well worth the look. And if you’re half as good in the sack as you are in a street fight, I’ll buy you whatever drink you fancy…”

Fenris raised his eyebrows.

Cullen rubbed his forehead. “Bull…”

“What? No harm in asking.”

Fenris shook his head, looking more amused than offended. “I thank you for the compliment, but I’ll have to decline.”

Bull shrugged, utterly nonplussed. “Suit yourself.” Then he smirked. “My door’s always open, if you change your mind.”

The tavern would be busy in the evening; there may be fewer people at Skyhold these days, but in winter most found the allure of hot food and a good fire hard to resist. Still, it was early enough that they made their way up the stairs without being followed by too many whispered conversations or curious looks. Varric, a bottle of wine in each hand, led them to the corner which had once been the de-facto headquarters for Sutherland and his crew – it couldn’t exactly be called secluded, being right beside the stairs, but it was more out of the way than most of the tables.

Cullen took the seat at one end, and noticed Fenris carefully chose to sit at the opposite end of the table – it made something twist uncomfortably in Cullen’s gut.

Bull, predictably, claimed the seat next to Fenris.

“Are you this fascinated by everyone who wounds you?” Dorian asked archly, settling into the chair beside Cullen with a graceful swish of his robes. He placed four dainty glasses on the table. Varric took the empty seat between Dorian and Fenris, setting the bottles down in front of him.

“It doesn’t often end well for people who wound me,” Bull explained, matter-of-fact. “And honestly, you have eyes. Why do you think I’m interested?”

Fenris had been reading the wine bottle – Cullen noticed his mouth moved slightly, sounding out the words silently as he went. The elf smirked and looked up at Dorian. “I assume you chose this?”

Dorian sniffed, tilting his head up. “What, not to your exacting standards?”

“On the contrary.” Fenris expertly uncorked the bottle, and took a swig straight from it – drawing a squawk of protest from Dorian. “Agreggio Pavali. For someone who is so determined not to be mistaken for a Magister, you certainly have a Magister’s taste in wine.”

Dorian reached across to pull the second bottle out of Fenris’ reach. “You don’t have to be a Magister to have a discerning palate.” He pointedly slid an empty glass in front of Fenris, then set to work filling the rest.

Varric snorted. “Don’t listen to him. He likes Ferelden beer.” The dwarf smiled innocently at the sour look Dorian shot him.

Fenris gave a low chuckle and took another mouthful of wine straight from the bottle, humming his satisfaction. “A tavern selling Agreggio? In the Imperium, it is the province of only the most exclusive wine merchants.”

“Ah, yes, well. Many of Corypheus’ agents were wealthy Tevinter mages, not uncommonly from the Magisterium itself. We managed to appropriate quite a lovely wine collection, wiping out their operations.” A sinister smile crossed Dorian's face as he slid a glass down the table to Cullen, and another to Varric. “Naturally, very few at Skyhold have even heard of it, so I believe I’m the only one ordering them. Of course, I’m appalled at this situation and so have done absolutely nothing to rectify it.”

Cullen picked up his glass, swirling the wine idly – it looked appealing, dark red and gleaming, but he found he didn’t have the taste for it. He set it down again and got to his feet. “Well, having mentioned Ferelden beer… I’m really more of an ale man myself." He headed down the stairs and back to the bar, leaving the others to debate the merits of southern beverages.

Waiting for Corff to return with his drink, Cullen was unsurprised when the Iron Bull stepped casually into place at his elbow. The tal-vashoth was too perceptive to have missed the strange mood Cullen had sunk into. “Everything all right there, chief?”

“Oh, just fine,” Cullen said dryly. “The Inquisitor attacked, me poleaxed by a living lyrium philter – which is perfect, as someone’s just been caught stealing the stuff. Just a normal day in the Inquisition.”

“Could be worse.” Bull leaned down into the bar, his brawny shoulders flexing. “No demons yet. Living lyrium – the elf?” He frowned. “It can’t pass skin to skin, can it? Otherwise surely all the mages in your Circles would have been screwing templars to sap some of that, give those escape attempts an edge.”

Cullen blinked. “Well, for one, templars don’t have lyrium in their skin – and Circle mages aren’t in lyrium withdrawal,” Cullen pointed out. “Besides, there was plenty of ‘screwing’ each other going on ever since the Circles were created.”

“Important traditions, hey?”

Despite himself, Cullen laughed, only a little bitterly. “His lyrium markings seem to have an affect on me, and it surely can't be good. I had to tell him that it's not safe for me to be around him,” he went on. “Hopefully if I stay away, it won’t be a problem.”

“Well you’re doing a great job of that, going out drinking together,” Bull said, then chuckled at the face Cullen pulled. “No, I get it. You know him better than anyone except Varric. You saved him – can’t exactly pretend he’s not here. Wouldn’t be easy to do that anyway.” He turned, resting back onto his elbows against the bar. “Ain’t seen an elf that easy on the eyes since the boss. I mean damn.”

“Bull, do you mind?” Cullen protested, and the tal-vashoth threw his head back and laughed.

Chapter Text

Afternoon quickly wore on into evening. Food was brought, and Varric and Cullen together – the two at the table most keenly aware of just how much weight Fenris had lost – coaxed most of it into their guest. As darkness fell, Revem finally escaped Josephine and joined them, his arrival heralded by a flurry of excited conversation from below as he passed through the ever more crowded taproom. Sera emerged from her tiny corner room to join them, bringing the mood from relaxed to riotous. A round of wicked grace turned into card tricks, Dorian extracting peals of thrilled laughter from Sera with every bit of sleight of hand – this was the kind of magic she could get behind, she said. Fenris chuckled at Varric’s jokes and Sera’s antics, rolled his eyes at Bull’s outrageous flirting and tolerated Dorian’s posturing and sharp tongue. He also drank steadily, until he had polished off the whole bottle on his own. Still, the elf didn’t seem overly affected; in fact, the only sign he had been drinking at all was a slightly greater tendency to smile, which didn’t seem such a bad thing after the day they’d all had.

It was only when Fenris tried to stand that it became obvious how drunk the elf really was: he nearly overbalanced, catching himself on the edge of the table and sending Bull’s half-empty tankard crashing to the floor.

Sera giggled manically. “And here I was all impressed at how you hold your drink. You are utterly rat-arsed!” 

“Perhaps I overdid it somewhat,” Fenris muttered absently, letting go of the table as he took an experimental step.

Varric and Cullen scrambled to their feet as he began to tilt, but Sera was closer; she sprang out of her chair and grabbed his shoulders, laughing again while she propped him up. “Hold it right there!” She backed him up until he was leaning against the wall, then stepped away cautiously. He blinked at her and nodded, slightly dazed. “My thanks, milady.”

Sera shook her tousled blonde head. “Oi, you hear that? Milady… you are drunk!”

Varric watched them dubiously. “Have we thought where to find Broody a bed for the night?” he asked.

Cullen was feeling a bit worse for wear himself. He sometimes had a glass or two of wine in his office before trying to sleep, but it had been a long time since he’d really tested his endurance – but at least he wasn’t swaying. Or, he was pretty sure he wasn’t, which was more than could be said for Fenris. Bull got to his feet and leaned against the wall, forming an effective barricade in case the elf fell again.

“Wherever he sleeps, someone should stay with him,” Revem suggested. Bull raised his eyebrows, opening his mouth to speak, but Revem held his hand up in a clear gesture of refusal. “Not Bull.”

“Hey, I’m hurt,” Bull said, mock-offended. “There’s a couple of spare bunks in the Chargers’ barracks, that’s all I was going to say.”

Sera glanced across, smirking. “Yeah, and say he passes out, what’re the odds of him waking up tomorrow with all his hair and without beards and parts and stuff scribbled all over his face?”

“Honestly, Sera, the Chargers are a high-class outfit,” Bull began, then dropped all pretense at seriousness and grinned crookedly. “Okay, fine… slim-to-none.”

Her high-pitched cackle was more than slightly sinister. “A high-class outfit after my own heart, then.”

“Well,” Varric scratched at his hairline, raising his eyebrows. “My room’s not the biggest, but there’s space on the floor.”

Cullen frowned. “Surely we can offer him better than a floor.” He thought for a moment, and suddenly the answer was obvious. “There’s a chaise in my office – it’s not bad to lie on. I’ve slept there at times.” He had drunk enough that he was no longer sure why he had been so concerned with being around Fenris; surely the worse that could happen already had. The lyrium had faded, and after what had happened earlier in the day surely this had not ended so badly.

Varric chuckled. “Doesn’t your office have holes in the roof and rotting wood everywhere? And no fireplace? Self-flagellation paradise.”

Cullen coloured slightly. “Not… anymore.”

Revem smiled. “I’d been trying to get him to agree to the repair work since we came to Skyhold – he finally conceded once Corypheus was dealt with.”

Cullen wanted to point out, not for the first time, that even before the repairs his quarters had been much more luxurious than the tents a lot of his troops had bedded down in during the campaign. He resisted the urge because he was honestly grateful for the Inquisitor’s insistence – there had been more than enough times since their arrival at Skyhold when he’d woken at night to find snow filtering in through the broken roof, and had to sleep in his office. Swapping that for a reliably warm room and dry bed had been quite a relief, especially because by the time the work was finished winter was well on the way.

Fenris slid sideways on the wall, his shoulder bumping heavily into Bull’s; the tal-vashoth steadied him with one large hand. “My apologies,” Fenris said, gazing up at Bull solemnly. “Nehraa issala shok.”

Bull looked at him steadily for a moment then turned back to the others. “And he speaks Qunlat. I could be a little bit in love.”

“Well, Broody,” Varric moved across to Fenris. “I think Curly’s office is the go, then. Best get moving before we’re privy to any weird Qunari courtship rituals.”

“Oh, lemme give you a hand!” Sera offered. “Or, you know, a couple of feet…” She snorted. “You know, because… dwarf!” She took Fenris’ other side.

“Yep, I think we all got it,” Varric said patiently, as they manoeuvred Fenris around the table.

Bull resumed his seat with a quirked eyebrow, shaking his head a little – he surely could have quite easily carried Fenris slung across his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, but he seemed content enough to let the others do as they would.

Cullen led the way, shifting obstacles and holding doors while the others swore and laughed their way across the battlements. At one point Varric slipped and all three nearly ended up in a pile on the icy stones. But they managed to reach Cullen’s office without any major injuries.

It wasn’t much warmer inside than out, but at least there was no ice underfoot. Cullen groped along his bookshelves, searching for flint and tinder. He managed to get the stubby candle on his desk lit, before turning his attention to the stove in the corner. He balled scrap documents and stacked wood over them, the pile flaring orange light through the room as the thick paper took flame. While he worked, Sera and Varric helped wrestle a rather dazed Fenris out of his pauldrons, gauntlets and breastplate and finally deposited him sprawled out on Cullen’s chaise.

“I didn’t drink that much,” Fenris breathed. “I should not be like this.”

“Not by your usual standards, I suppose,” Varric said. “But it’s been too long since you’ve been in a good fight if you forgot to take it easy after a healing.”

Fenris only grunted, covering his eyes with his hand.

“Well, sleep it off – tomorrow’s a new day, who knows, might be a nice crisis for you to go off and behead people over.” Varric patted Fenris’ shoulder.

“Last one back to the tavern’s a rotten egg!” called Sera, already dashing out the door.

“Watch the ice, Buttercup!”

With the door shut behind them, Fenris let his hand fall away from his face. “An interesting day.”

Cullen laughed softly as he dropped into the chair at his desk. “That’s one way of putting it.”

Fenris leaned up on one elbow, frowning across at Cullen as though he had remembered something important. “Are you… all right? Should I be here, given...?”

“I’m fine,” Cullen began, instinctively, then stopped himself. He tapped his fingers on the desk briefly. “I’m not sure. Nothing's happened so far – I guess we’ll find out soon enough.” He scrubbed his hand across his face; he hadn’t been thinking of it, and he didn’t want to start again now. “There surely can’t be any harm you sleeping in my office.”

"Let us hope not. I don't think I will make it elsewhere." Fenris leaned back again. “Hawke would have called me an idiot for all of this,” he muttered.

 “I doubt he’d have fared much better in your situation,” Cullen protested gently. “He was not a ‘look before you leap’ sort of man. And Maker knows there’s no right way to react to getting that kind of letter.”

“You…” Fenris stopped himself, and started again. “You know this from experience.” It should have been a question, but he could clearly tell enough to state it as fact.

“Yes,” Cullen said simply. “My parents, during the Blight. I didn’t find out until months later.”

Fenris looked away. “My condolences.”

“It was a long time ago. But it wasn’t an easy time for anyone and I… wasn’t in a good way when I received it.” Cullen winced at the immensity of his own understatement. “I didn’t take it well.”

Fenris nodded, though his eyes still faced the wall. “I would not wish that on anyone.” He hunched his shoulders as though bracing for a blow. "I am a poor reader," he said. “Hawke taught me, but I don’t have the patience for it. After I got through Varric’s letter, I wanted to believe I had misread it – I was convinced it could not be true. But Aveline was there…” He paused, clearing his throat. “She had been crying. Then I knew I had not been mistaken.”

“The Guard-Captain?" Cullen traced a gouge in the wood beneath his hands. "I can't picture it..."

“Hawke was loved by many. He… looked after people, protected people, and damn the consequences. He showed me there is truly good in the world.” It was impossible to make out Fenris’ expression in the dim light with his face turned away, but Cullen could see the elf’s hand clench. “I did not deserve him - perhaps that is why he was taken from me.”

Cullen leaned forward in his chair as though physically pulled. “You can’t believe that. I didn’t speak to him very much while he was here, Fenris, but you should know – Hawke could barely stop himself talking of you.” Cullen ducked his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I understand it, now, I think. You are – remarkable. And it has very little to do with anything Danarius did to you.”

Fenris didn’t reply, and when Cullen finally looked up the elf was facing him once more: there was a faraway look in his green eyes, and the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Perhaps it is the accent, but – Hawke once said something very similar.” He blinked, and now he was looking properly at Cullen. “Thank you.” Then he dropped back against the chaise, squeezing his eyes shut. “Now if only the room would stay still…”

Hours later, Cullen startled out of sleep, squinting groggily against a faint blue-white light. There was a strange hitching sound, almost like someone fighting for breath. He pushed back the covers as he sat up, his brain struggling to catch up with his senses through the sleep fog and alcohol.

The light brightened; the sound became a throttled groan of pain. Maker, Fenris. Cullen was instantly wide awake, heart hammering as he threw himself across the room and down the ladder.

The elf lay on his side on the chaise, curled into himself, the markings flaring brighter than Cullen had ever seen them. His teeth were gritted, his face twisted with agony.

Cullen crouched down beside him. “Fenris!” He shook the elf’s shoulder, hard. “Fenris!”

The groan broke off into a startled gasp as Fenris’ eyes rolled open. The elf was panting for breath, staring at Cullen’s face in confusion.

“You’re safe, it’s all right. You’re safe… it was a nightmare.”

The markings slowly faded out, until the only light in the room was the faint silvery cast of moonlight admitted by the narrow window. Cullen let Fenris’ shoulders go and moved to straighten again – but the elf reached out and grabbed hold of him, wrapping deceptively strong arms around Cullen’s ribcage as he pulled the heavier man down against him. Fenris buried his face in Cullen’s neck, breathing still ragged.

Cullen hesitated, then brought his own hands up along the sides of Fenris’ body to hold the elf in return. Fenris’ hair was soft against the side of Cullen’s face – this close he could smell mint, fragrant oil, the warm scent of Fenris’ own skin – but the elf’s body was all hard planes of muscle and bone, crushed against Cullen and tense beneath his hands. He could feel Fenris' heartbeat, drumming too fast like his own.

His next breath stuttered, and suddenly Fenris turned his head and his mouth was on Cullen’s. The kiss was demanding, the elf’s lips slanting open as Cullen froze in shock. But the feel of soft lips dragging against his own, deft hands stroking down his back, the solid warmth of Fenris’ frame below him – each sensation hit Cullen’s system like a drug, bringing with it the need for more. His hands tightened on Fenris, one sliding up over the elf’s hair while the other wrapped across his shoulders and dragged him yet closer; their tongues slid together as Cullen gave himself over to the kiss, returning it just as fiercely.

Cullen’s mouth grazed along the markings below Fenris’ lips, pleasure shooting through his body with each contact. He dragged his hand back down Fenris’ chest and underneath his shirt, fingers skating across Fenris’ stomach; the elf groaned into the kiss, his hands moving restlessly across Cullen’s shoulders. Cullen felt high, each touch of lyrium-etched skin sending little thrills of pleasure and need jolting through him. He shifted down to mouth at the ladder of markings tracing Fenris' throat, the elf arching his neck to give better access. Cullen bit down lightly, sucking against the skin.

“Ahh… Hawke…”

Cullen stopped, jerking upright as though he had been doused with cold water. Fenris stared up at him through the dim light, groggy, still breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” Cullen stammered, his cheeks burning as he came back to himself. Maker, what was he doing? “I shouldn’t… you are… and this…” He stood, backing up. Fenris was drunk. Drunk and… mourning and, the lyrium, by the Maker… but looking down at him, the pull of desire almost made his knees give out. Fenris’ hair was in disarray, his lips reddened, the lower catches of his shirt parted to show a hint of silver-lined bronze skin. Cullen stepped back again firmly, lifting his eyes above Fenris’ head. “Forgive me.”

Before he could do anything further he would regret, he turned towards his ladder and hauled himself up into the relative safety of his bedroom.

Alone, he stood in the darkness and waited for his blood to cool and his heart to slow. Then he peeled off his shirt, threw it aside, and sat down on his bed.

He brought his fingers up to his mouth; his lips were tender, almost bruised feeling.

“Andraste preserve me,” he muttered, falling back.

It took Cullen a long time to fall asleep. When he slipped into the old dream, it was himself on the outside of the pink-tinted barrier, staring in at a white-haired elf standing on a floor slick with silvery lyrium.

Chapter Text

Fenris paced the courtyard, restless. They would move anytime now; the mages had holed up in the Gallows, but Meredith was determined to see every one slain. The Templars were assembling, drumming their shields with the flats of their swords as drafts of lyrium were passed around. The Knight-Captain stood with the other Templars, but his eyes were distant and touched with doubt.

Once, Fenris would have exulted in this moment. But much had changed. He knew that it caused Hawke pain; Hawke who had always resisted choosing sides, but whose hand had finally been forced.

They had left Anders crumpled in the street, eyes glassy in death. That dagger-thrust had injured Hawke, too, damaged some part of him – and though Fenris could not share Hawke’s tolerance of the mage’s antics, he found he could not say he relished seeing the mage dead.

Hawke was still joking, on reflex, but his smiles were forced and humourless. His face was pale and there was a grim resignation in his eyes; he didn’t seem the self-assured leader they all looked to, and Fenris was unsettled. He laid a gauntleted hand gently against Hawke’s face; he could feel through his bare palm that Hawke’s cheek was cold. “Promise me you won’t die?”

Fenris’ eyes flickered open, blinking in the stripe of bright light that fell through a narrow window. He covered his face with his hand, turning groggily away from the sunlight as he drifted into consciousness. The dreams were always so real; Kirkwall, and Hawke, and everything that had meant. They weren’t always good dreams – with all the insanity that seemed endemic to that city they hardly could be – but it was always a shock to wake from them, the reality of his loss fresh and raw again every time. And still, he treasured them, as painful as they were. Every detail was there, summoned out of Fenris’ memory: each cowlick in Hawke’s dark hair, every faint scar that mapped out his long limbs, the flecks of gold in his amber-brown eyes. Fenris wanted to believe he would never forget these things; he refused to think otherwise.

He let his hand fall and craned his neck up to look around, eyes still squeezed mostly shut against that infernal sunshine. He was in what appeared to be an office, large and furnished for utility rather than appearances. It looked… vaguely familiar, but he wasn’t certain whose it was or exactly how he had ended up here, and there was no one in sight to ask. He had apparently slept in his clothes, curled up on a sofa like a cat. Hawke would have laughed at that; he had sometimes teased Fenris about his ability to sleep anywhere, and Fenris could never quite bring himself to point out that it was a skill born of necessity for a slave. Before escaping Danarius, he had never slept on anything more luxurious than a pallet on the floor – the times he had been compelled to his master’s bed, he had not been permitted to remain.

Clenching his jaw, Fenris levered himself up to sitting and swung his legs around to the floor; pain bloomed through the front of his skull and had to hunch against it, but he preferred the headache to remembering anything of that former life. Still, the hangover was formidable, to be giving him pause. The last thing he was sure he remembered was going to the tavern after meeting with the Inquisitor – where apparently he had set to drinking with serious purpose.

He straightened his back carefully, rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders. His boots were kicked off to one side, and he pulled them on - it was strange to think that just the previous day, the swelling alone would have kept them from fitting. He had not realised the damage a little snow could cause. Warped out of shape, blistered, the markings had sent jolts of agony through him at each movement; sharp reminders of the carving that had originally placed them. Now his skin was whole again, the markings calm. The Inquisitor’s work was impressive; even Anders was --

And that was another mage he had no interest in thinking of. Fenris forced himself to concentrate on the buckle at the side of his boot as his fingers fumbled over it – he cursed under his breath. Much as he had no intention of ever risking frostbite again, he would still never understand humans' fascination with shoes.

Finished, his mood sour, he lurched to his feet. The headache flared, his pulse pounding behind his eyes; the room seemed to list off to one side like the deck of a sinking ship and Fenris had to grab onto the arm of the chair beside him to keep from falling. But finally his balance adjusted and his vision settled, and he was able to take a better look around himself.

From his higher vantage point, he could see that someone had taken the time to lay out the rest of his armour neatly on one end of the desk – though the other end was a mess of paperwork, books, half-melted candles and other odds and ends. As he pulled his gauntlets on, he noticed that the markings on the rest of his body seemed affected similarly to those on his feet: they were less reactive than usual, and he felt barely a twinge of discomfort as the straps of his gauntlets grazed the raised lines that mapped his wrists and hands.

As ready to face the residents of Skyhold as he could be, he headed outside and straight into the face of a winter wind whistling down off the mountain slopes; the rush of cold chased away the last vestiges of drowsiness instantly. He frowned at the scene around him; seeing it now, he thought he could remember coming here the previous night. Varric was there, laughing at something, and perhaps... in fact – he was sure, Commander Cullen had been there, and it was his office. He had an image of following Cullen’s back, silhouetted by a flickering light that turned blond hair into a gleaming halo, fur collar pulled close against the cold.

At the thought of Cullen, an inexplicable surge of tense excitement went through Fenris’ gut. He stopped, surprised at himself. Cullen was a handsome man – Fenris had always noticed that much. He had found the Knight-Captain attractive, in the same distant way he found Isabela so. But he'd been too fixated on Hawke to give it more than a passing thought.

He shoved the thought aside, irritated, and turned his attention down to the yard below. 

The ground was lined with snow, though cleared in parts and churned with earth by passing feet in others. Down to his right, by the stables, a rider was walking a horse in circles around a covered well while a man chopped wood nearby. There was a small cluster of market stalls; three were covered over, but one remained bravely open despite the cold. A slight woman, wrapped in warm layers paired with – of all things for snow – a foolish Orlesian mask, was busy arranging a display of items for sale. Down the stairs, in the area right before the portcullis, a low fire burned in a well-established pit. A woman in the brown and green uniform of the Inquisition sat sharpening an axe, while two half-grown children worked on a snowman close by. From further away, he could hear the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith’s hammer.

It was all so domestic and peaceful, in his current mood it could only be grating. He wasn’t made for this sort of place; for all the life he could remember, he had been trained for action, for combat. He felt as though he needed them, now, needed the life-or-death urgency of a bloody purpose. This calm and quiet was unsettling.

He was reminded suddenly that he didn't have his sword – he had not yet tracked it down, and its absence felt wrong. He would have never stepped outside without a weapon in Kirkwall. More than that, the blade had been a gift from Hawke. One he hadn’t even wanted at first: Hawke had infamously poor taste in presents, and giving a former slave a Magister’s status symbol had been no exception to his usual style. But of course it had an entirely different meaning now, and Fenris found it uncomfortable to have it out of his sight. He remembered the healer had said the previous day that he could collect it from – someone, he couldn’t recall the name. Straightening, despite the hangover, he went to find out.

The proprietor of the stall had directed him, rather hesitantly, back to the main keep and to something called the ‘Undercroft’, where the head blacksmith worked. As he passed through the vast double doors he found the main hall much emptier today – perhaps because the Inquisitor himself was absent from the room this time. Still, the few people seated at the long table stopped talking, nudged shoulders and urgent whispers bringing all eyes his direction. Clearly news of the previous day’s events had spread. Fenris was little concerned: he had long since been used to stares and whispers. In the early, cloudier parts of his memory, one of the few that he could recall vividly was of the evening when Danarius had first taken his freshly-marked ‘pet’ out for inspection – the discomfort of being scrutinised by so many had been almost equal to the physical pain in his skin. But he had adapted quickly. There was little choice.

“Broody!”

Fenris glanced up towards the sound of that familiar voice, to see Varric ensconced in what was obviously a favourite spot. The dwarf lounged in a chair in front of the fire, another chair pulled up before him as a makeshift footstool; with one hand tucked behind his head and a little notebook in the other, he was the image of relaxation. The very sight gave Fenris the urge to pace. Domesticity, peace, relaxation – these were mostly alien concepts to Fenris. His time with Hawke had afforded brief, promising glimpses into their possibilities, but his loss had hammered home once again that none of it lasted, and while it did it only served to make people vulnerable. Varric leaned forward as Fenris approached, letting his feet drop to the floor.

“And what can I do for you? Water, is my guess," Varric suggested, with a knowing smirk. He gestured towards a beaten copper pitcher and a pair of matching cups on the table before him. “Unless you go more for hair-of-the-dog.”

Fenris ignored the cups and picked up the whole pitcher, lifting it to his lips. At the first mouthful, he realised how desperately thirsty he really was – before he knew it, he had drained the thing. He wiped a trickle of water from his mouth and chin, setting the pitcher down again, and inclined his head stiffly. “My thanks.” Things weren't easy between him and Varric yet. It was not a surprise that Varric helped keep Hawke's location secret from Fenris, when Hawke willed it, but Fenris didn't have it in him to forgive yet. “Perhaps you could also direct me to the Undercroft?”

“Yeah, I’ll take you. It’s not far.” Varric threw the notebook onto the table and got to his feet, stretching elaborately. He led Fenris further into the room, towards the Inquisitor’s throne.

“How’d you sleep in your palatial accommodations last night?” Varric asked idly. “Can’t believe Cullen has an intact roof now.”

And there was that sensation again, a thrill of nervous energy through Fenris’ core. He could not pretend he didn’t understand what was happening either; he was attracted to Cullen. Fenris frowned at the stone floor. It had been many months since he had last seen Hawke, but he had known of Hawke’s death for little over one. And Hawke had been an exception to a longstanding rule – one that took years even to act on, and longer to finally get right. It felt like a betrayal to even notice another. He'd expected to have learned his lesson.

He realised he had stopped walking; Varric was holding a side door open, watching him, and for a moment Fenris was worried that the dwarf’s infamous perception had given him altogether too much insight into Fenris’ thoughts. Then Varric raised his eyebrows with an amused grin: “Do you remember last night at all?”

Fenris winced as he passed through the doorway, which brought a chuckle from the dwarf.

“Sera was right then, about you being – what was the term – ‘completely rat-arsed’?” Varric closed the door after them. “Such a way with words, that one.”

Chapter Text

The temperature was noticeably lower here, and it dropped further as they went down a flight of steps and through another door onto a stone landing lit by two low braziers. Fenris stared openly at the sight before him. Down a twinned stone stairway was a broad space that must once have been a natural cave, now carved out and built onto, but it was not the room itself that impressed him. The curved mouth of the cave, edged with huge blocks of stone and jutting stalactites, looked straight out onto a frozen waterfall. The weak winter sunlight slanted through undulating ice, casting a pattern of rainbow light across the balcony. Beyond the waterfall, a white-veiled mountain stretched into the pale blue sky above.

“Quite something, isn’t it?” came a gruff voice from beside him.

Shaking off his reverie, Fenris glanced in that direction to see a male human with an impressive ginger moustache watching him. The man sat on a barrel beside a smaller brazier, while a tiny female dwarf perched atop a crate opposite him. The dwarf, her cheeks almost as red as her russet hair in the cold, inspected Fenris with open curiosity. They both held mugs in gloved hands that steamed in the chill air; a kettle set on the stone floor sent up a thin column of steam from its spout and condensation ran in rivulets down its side. All at once the dwarf leapt from her seat, spilling half of the contents of her mug in her haste before hurriedly setting it down on the crate.

“Wow!” she said, vibrating with excitement as she smiled at Fenris. “I’ve heard about you – haven’t I? Yes, you must be, you’re the lyrium ghost! I’ve barely even read about this kind of ritual – I mean they theorised all sorts of amazing things that they could do – that you could do!”

Fenris regarded her coolly. “It should have remained theory.” He had encountered plenty of overly enthusiastic academics before, concerned only with results and not bothered by the suffering required to achieve them.

She bobbed her head. “Oh, undoubtedly – what a twisted thing to do, really just appalling!” She didn’t even pause, reaching out her hand as though to touch the exposed lines on his palm before he stepped back with a cautionary glare. “I don’t suppose you’d consider letting me do a few tests… maybe get a sample… ?”

“I don’t think so, Dagna,” Varric stepped in between them as a snarl formed on Fenris’ lips. “Most people can only stomach so much of being treated like an experiment, and I think Fenris is well beyond his tolerance.”

Harritt was frowning at his diminutive companion. “Ignore this one. Getting carried away is what she does best.”

Dagna dropped her hand, looking slightly abashed. “Oh I am sorry – I am always getting a little bit ahead of myself. Well, okay, a lot ahead of myself!” She gave a little shrug, smiling again. “I’ve just met so many fascinating people since leaving Orzammar, and Skyhold has been the most incredible part yet. I can’t believe I get paid to be here, honestly!”

The human cleared his throat, tipping his head to one side. “She’s Dagna, for what it’s worth, and I’m Harritt. What can we do for you?”

“I was told my sword is here,” Fenris said, irritation making his voice clipped.

“Sword… ? Er…” Harritt gulped the last of his drink and headed down the stairs. Fenris followed after him, deliberately avoiding meeting the dwarf's eyes– she was still watching him, fascinated. “I did have one sent in – order of Commander Cullen, apparently. Normally that sort of maintenance’d go to rest of my folk in the main smithy.” He cast his eye down Fenris’ frame; he made no comment, but looked dubious as they reached a workbench where the familiar Blade of Mercy was laid out.

Fenris could tell at a glance that the blacksmith was a master of his work: The blade was mirror-bright with a light sheen of oil, the edge newly sharpened, and even the flattened crossguard had been polished. The hilt had been re-covered with dull black shagreen and wire, the pommel blackened. Fenris lifted the sword easily from the bench and stepped back into the broad space near the foot of the stairs. He raised the weapon in front of him and took a deep breath. He reversed the blade across his body, adjusting his stance, and swung it in a high arc over his shoulder; he pivoted with the weight, dropping low to sweep the sword around at full extension. When he straightened, hefting the weapon up to lean the flat of it against his chest, Harritt shook his head.

“Good thing I’ve learned my lesson about the word ‘impossible’ in my time with the Inquisition.” The smith crossed his arms over his chest, watching as Fenris lifted the sword easily back onto the bench. “How in Thedas do you keep your balance? The only other man here who’d use a weapon that size on foot probably weighs five of you put together.”

Fenris shrugged, inspecting the back harness that was laid out nearby – it too had been newly oiled and repaired, the backboard for his sword stiffened with fresh wax.

“This is what I mean by amazing!” Dagna piped up from behind them as Fenris buckled the harness into place around his back and shoulder. “You see the occasional mage who can do something a bit similar… I mean Knight-Enchanters use just a hilt, not a full blade, but if you saw Lady Vivienne in action, she’d go toe to toe with just about anyone in close quarters. Then in some of the Circle libraries you could find old texts about these ‘arcane warriors’.” She spoke the words slowly and with reverence, eyes shining. “They were ancient elves, mages, bodyguards to the most powerful elites… apparently their magic let them wear heavy armour and use weapons even the strongest warrior couldn’t carry, or that’s what the texts say. And you have to wonder!” Her hands moved constantly as she spoke, gesticulating wildly, which Fenris found as annoying as the nonsense she was spouting. However, she seemed completely oblivious to his distaste as she went on: “Lyrium, it’s like a shortcut to the fade – it makes access easier for mages, and lets templars interrupt that access. I would wager there was just a little latent magical ability in you somewhere, for this to work, but… enough lyrium, enough amplification, look what is possible!”

Fenris had seen Varric wince visibly over Dagna’s shoulder at the mention of ‘magical ability’. For Fenris’ part, however, it was easy to discount that along with all her other rambling. He didn’t know how his markings worked, and he honestly didn’t much care – but any suggestion that he could be a mage was too ridiculous even to entertain.

“Well, now that I have provided such entertainment,” Fenris grated, “we should go.” He turned to Harritt with an appreciative nod. “I thank you for your care of my weapon. The work is excellent.”

As they went back up the stairs to the main hall he could hear Dagna say distantly, sounding puzzled: “Was it something I said?” And Harritt’s snort.

Varric was smiling to himself as they went back up the stairs and through the main hall.

“What is it, dwarf?” Fenris snapped, still feeling unsettled by the encounter.

“Imagine if she’s right…” Varric shook his head slightly, his smile broadening. “Blondie would have had a field day with that little theory of hers.”

“Her theory is idiotic,” Fenris gritted out. “And as for that abomination, he–” But Fenris found he couldn’t quite summon up the vitriol he’d once felt for the mage. A man whose mention would, for years, have enraged him somehow had the opposite effect now. Anders had committed an insane and terrible act – but Fenris knew something about desperation, about finding your back against a wall. And he could still remember the screams of the Fog Warrior women, the scent of tropical flowers and ocean water mingling with the tang of fresh blood. He looked away from Varric, unable to find any further words.

“I’m not sure how to feel about him either, Broody.” Varric sighed. “I would have counted him as a friend, once. But there was never much scope for a good ending there. Well, I’d say it’s time for the tavern, then.” Fenris turned back, incredulous, and Varric laughed outright. “I’m not suggesting a repeat of last night – not that I thought I’d ever see you turning down a bottle of wine with breakfast. I’m prescribing some bacon and eggs to feed that hangover.”

Which didn’t sound overly appealing either, but experience had taught Fenris not to argue with dwarves when it came to hangovers. He dutifully followed Varric towards the tavern.

The dull clack of wooden swords rang out as they crested the stairs from the lower bailey. Fenris could see a small crowd of people gathered near the infirmary, facing towards what he vaguely remembered as a sort of open practice yard. Most of those gathered wore Inquisition uniforms, though there were a few idling servants and even a pair in the fur-trimmed finery favoured by Fereldan nobility. It was the biggest crowd he’d seen since waking at Skyhold; the scrape and thunk of wooden training weapons and the rapid shuffle of booted feet through slush suggested they were watching some sort of sparring match. He assumed it must be quite a spectacle, to bring so many out into the weather. There was a thud of impact and The Iron Bull shouted: “Come on! Is that all you got?”

Varric glanced over, seeming amused. “Mm, someone must be giving Tiny a challenge. His sparring matches don’t usually last long enough to attract this many spectators.”

A rasp of wood on wood and a loud thunk as weapons came heavily together. “Go on Commander!” a woman’s voice called.

That pulled Varric up. “Tiny – and Curly? Well that’s one worth seeing any day of the year.” He inclined his head towards the throng. “Shall we?”

Fenris nodded, and they made their way towards the group. He could admit he was curious himself. The Knight-Captain Cullen he remembered had already been a skilled and disciplined swordsman who led from the front – Fenris knew what the years adventuring at Hawke’s side had done to his own skills, and wondered what the effect of training and leading an army had been on Cullen’s. The crowd was only a couple of rows deep, standing back at a respectful distance from the bout. Varric moved naturally through them with a nod here and an offhand comment there, drawing Fenris along in his wake until they stood by the stone wall on one side of the makeshift training yard.

The two combatants circled one another warily, their breath steaming in the cold air. Cullen was armed with a training sword and a battered round shield; the Iron Bull held a chipped and pitted wooden claymore low to one side. Bull was shirtless besides his shoulder harness, a sheen of sweat on his greyish skin. It was foolish to spar without some kind of armour, but The Iron Bull seemed the type to relish every bruise and scar – he’d already collected a reddish stripe from Cullen across one side of his ribcage. The Commander was clad in his customary plate, his hair sweaty enough to bring out the curls Fenris remembered from Kirkwall.

Bull sidestepped a testing jab from Cullen and swung heavily at the human’s sword-side: Fenris hissed in air, a flare of worry jolting through him – Cullen hadn’t dropped below the swing or danced back out of reach as Hawke would have, and surely the blow would connect. But Cullen caught the swing just above the crossguard of his own sword, grunting with effort as he deflected the bigger weapon upwards. The Tal-Vashoth was faster than Fenris had expected, but years of fighting in a Templar’s plate had clearly given Cullen muscle to match a bigger opponent.

And if Bull was fast, Cullen was faster still: quicker than he had any right to be with the amount of metal he wore. He feinted left then lunged right, bracing his shield to bar Bull’s sword as the big Tal-Vashoth attempted to turn to protect his blind side; Bull swung the claymore up and around with a bellow but as soon as he raised his arms he found the dull tip of Cullen’s sword jabbed squarely against the hollow below his chin.

The gathered audience erupted into noise – cheers, jeers and excited shouting, and both Bull and Cullen startled in surprise: apparently they hadn’t realised just how closely their bout was being watched.

Bull’s roar turned into a full-bodied laugh, and he dropped one hand away from the grip to hold it palm-out in a gesture of surrender. Cullen stepped back and lowered his sword, giving a half-bow to his opponent.

Bull brought his own weapon down to touch the ground on one side, and leaned against it as though it were a walking stick. “You’re really something, Cullen – every time I think I’ve finally caught you napping, you’re just laying bait.” The Tal-Vashoth shook his head a little. “You and the Boss, just no real weaknesses to work with. Hey… now that would be a great match-up.”

“I would pay good coin to watch,” Varric cut in from where he leaned against the wall.

“Nah.” Bull grinned easily. “You’d make coin, selling tickets. Or taking bets and convincing one of them to throw the fight.”

“Who, me?” Varric held his hand to his chest in mock surprise. “Never.”

Cullen was smiling a little, listening to Varric – he shifted his shield to his other arm, mopping at his forehead with the leather palm of his gauntlet. Fenris couldn’t help but watch, and in the face of the display he had witnessed he forgot to feel ashamed of noticing just how unfairly good the years had been to Cullen. His charms in Kirkwall were evident enough, but now he was on a whole other level. Fenris could see more than a few reddened cheeks and smiling whispers amongst the women in the crowd.

Then Cullen’s eyes drifted to Fenris; they widened in what looked almost like panic, and darted away again. Then – unaccountably – he blushed up to his hairline.

“Sorry, Bull… I, ah,” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, refusing to meet Fenris’ gaze again. “I have to be getting back now. I’ve been putting off a… missive from Denerim.” He dropped the practice weapons to one side hastily, dodged his way through the dispersing crowd, and was gone.

“So, he’s not your biggest fan, not sober at least,” Varric remarked softly. “I guess lyrium warrior, former lyrium addict… probably not a friendship that’s meant to be.”

Bull looked consideringly down at Fenris, then back in the direction Cullen had gone, but he made no comment. Instead, he grabbed another battered two-handed waster from where it leaned against the wall and offered it hilt-first to Fenris. “Shall we?”

Fenris shrugged out of the harness that held his real sword and leaned it in place of the wooden one. Varric backed into the dispersing crowd behind them, holding his arms back to encourage them further out of the way. “Come on folks, I wouldn’t want to be within twenty yards of this one.”

Fenris took the waster from Bull, shifting it from hand to hand as he tested its weight. It was made of a heavy hardwood, though still without the heft of a true claymore or greatsword. He dropped into a half-crouch and raised the weapon to one side, raising his eyebrows at Bull.

The Tal-Vashoth chuckled, and came at him. The first blow was almost cautious, testing Fenris, who easily knocked it aside. But he could feel the strength in the swing, the vibration up his arms, and he knew he wouldn’t have the physical bulk to stop Bull in close quarters. Well, he’d never been one to waste time in a fight anyway: when Bull next lifted his weapon, rushing at Fenris, the elf scythed through like lightning to one side of him, too quickly for Bull to react. The wooden blade struck Bull fully across both legs – charging into the strike, the Bull’s own momentum, as much as Fenris’ blow, hurled him forwards over the flat of the blade.

He heard the surprised grunt and the wet impact of Bull’s heavy frame hitting the slush of the training yard, and when he turned it was to find Bull pushing himself up from prone, grimacing at the sensation of being coated from chin to knees in freezing mud. There were no cheers from the few still gathered to watch; most of them regarded Fenris with open shock. Varric, at least, was laughing softly to himself as he came forward to help pull Bull to his feet. 

Bull swiped a large grey hand down his muddy chest, grinning despite himself. “Well, shit,” he laughed. “Now I am extra disappointed you turned down my offer last night.” He winked his one eye, then he caught sight of something over Fenris’ shoulder and groaned. “I am going to be hearing about this for months.”

The newcomer, a lightly-built Tevinter warrior in practical plate armour, was smirking broadly. “Years, I’d say.” He saluted Fenris. “I can’t thank you enough for that. I think you’ve earned me a month or two without hearing any more puns on ‘Cremisius’. Come on, Chief.” He offered the Qunari his arm. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Tell me Grim still has some of that frangipani soap,” Bull muttered, waving goodbye distractedly over his shoulder as he headed off towards the baths.

Watching them leave, Fenris saw movement above them out of the corner of his eye. When he looked for the source, he realised Cullen was still standing halfway up the stairs that led to the battlements, watching Fenris. There was undisguised admiration on his face, and he inclined his head before turning to continue on his path.

Fenris glowered at the wall as he buckled his own sword back into place, the earlier sense of annoyance building again. He couldn’t seem to keep his thoughts – and eyes – off Cullen, no matter how wrong that seemed. And Cullen was apparently taking his concern about Fenris’ lyrium markings so seriously that he couldn’t even remain in the elf’s presence.

When Fenris turned his glare back up along the battlements, Cullen was nowhere in sight.

Chapter Text

When the food Varric ordered was brought up, Fenris was surprised by the variety – a shallow dish of smoked fish and fragrant rice, some delicate Orlesian pastries arranged on a plate, a rolled cheese omelette speckled with herbs, small leaf-wrapped parcels that steamed faintly. “Not what I usually expect of tavern fare,” Fenris remarked, as the last plate was delivered. Some of this would not have looked out of place at the endless banquets and parties Danarius had attended. The final dish was strips of crispy bacon and pan-fried potatoes, the only thing of the selection they might have found on the menu at the Hanged Man.

“Yeah, the Inquisition has people from all over Thedas, including in the kitchens – there’s a couple of Orlesian cooks, and at least one Rivaini, plus a woman from Tantervale. Then the Inquisitor himself is Dalish, he’s definitely given them a few recipes over the years. Something to suit all tastes.” Varric slid the seafood dish over to his own side of the table. “Including those of elves with weird prejudices against fish.” Varric began to eat with obvious relish, and Fenris grimaced in distaste. He had cleaned enough fish during his time with the Fog Warriors to put him off them for life.

He couldn’t say the same for the other food, however, and looking at it all he suddenly felt ravenous in a way he hadn’t been since Hawke’s departure.

He selected one of the pastries, tearing off fragments to eat with his fingers. It was filled with diced apple, and the crust was soft and crisp; it was easily the best thing Fenris had eaten in several months. It had never been intentional, to go without food so often, but without an appetite eating had been only a chore. It was something of a relief, to feel hungry again – to take pleasure in anything again. Next he tried one of the green parcels – the inside was filled with a nut paste, rich with spices. In the meantime, Varric had finished the bowl of fish and rice, eaten a pastry in two bites, and then tackled half the omelette and bacon. “What?” the dwarf managed around a mouthful of bacon at Fenris’ raised eyebrow. “I’m trying to lead by example.”

They had almost finished when The Iron Bull trudged up the stairs, freshly washed and bringing with him a faint floral scent under the leather-and-metal of his armour. He took a seat at the table and stole a piece of bacon off the platter.

“Nice to see the pain of defeat hasn’t changed you, Tiny,” Varric said easily.

Iron Bull snorted. “There’s been plenty of defeats, don’t worry. Though,” and he grimaced a little, “maybe not many quite that convincing.”

Varric stood, stretching. “I was just about to see what they have in the way of tea, if you’re interested.”

Fenris could swear Bull’s pointed ears perked up. “Yeah, they found a tin of some sort of mint and lavender thing the other day.”

Varric held up his hands, smiling wryly. “You and flowers, Tiny, I swear.”

Bull demolished the piece of bacon while Varric headed down to the bar below. Then the Tal-Vashoth turned to Fenris, his expression serious.

“Just came up to say – if you’re ever looking for work, I will outdo any other offer you might get.” Bull gave a firm nod. “I know the Inquisitor might be lining something up for you, but you never know. Situations change, and getting you on board would be really something for the Chargers.” Then the Tal-Vashoth shrugged, his demeanour relaxed once more. “Oh and, sorry if I came on a bit strong yesterday. Didn’t realise you had another thing going.”

Fenris straightened in his seat, frowning. “What?”

Bull gestured towards his own neck, tipping his head to one side. “Could almost have mistaken it for a bruise, but I’ve seen enough of those in my life to know the difference.” He grabbed the last bit of bacon.

Fenris lifted his hands to his neck, running his palm over the familiar raised pattern that wraps around his throat, but there was nothing palpably different.

Bull raised his eyebrows, his one visible eye crinkling with laughter. “Uh, you have a love bite.” He paused at the blank stare Fenris returned him. “A… hickey? Whatever you vints call them. If my lieutenant had more of a life I’d probably know by now.”

Fenris jolted to his feet, his hand clapped over the side of his throat. He cast his eyes around the room, before he spotted a silver platter lying on a side table nearby. He stepped across and snatched it up, peering at his reflection.

He didn’t like looking in mirrors at the best of times – Hawke had called him handsome, and beautiful, and all manner of flattering names, but when Fenris saw his own reflection he saw only the ‘creation’ Danarius had made of him. He turned his head, scowling into the glass, and he saw what Bull had: a small pink welt, speckled with red pinpricks, right beside where the white lines branched on the side of his neck.

When he turned back to Bull, the Tal-Vashoth was no longer smiling. He straightened in his seat, watching Fenris intently. “So… you don’t remember anything happening?” He frowned. “Remember last night at all?”

Fenris dropped the platter back onto the table with a clatter before he stormed down the stairs, brushing past Varric who was coming the other way with a pot of tea and three mugs. From behind him he heard the dwarf’s exasperated call: “What did you say this time, Tiny?”

By the time he reached the battlements, high above the main gate of Skyhold, his outrage had faded into a sense of doubt and confusion. There were… impressions, when he thought on it, though they seemed more like a dream than reality, but perhaps…

He had dreamt of Hawke – hadn’t he? But a dream cannot leave a mark, and even if it could Hawke would not have. Their physical relationship had always been a sort of balancing act between causing Fenris pleasure and pain, every touch always verging on too intense. The markings on Fenris’ neck were particularly sensitive, laid over thinner skin, and it had taken only one time for Hawke to learn to avoid that area entirely. He hated to cause Fenris pain.

But there was no pain, this time, which should have been impossible. Fenris paced along the stretch of wall, rubbing the markings at the side of his neck with the pad of his thumb. He had known it from waking, but now he was keenly aware of the fact that his markings did not hurt – and they should hurt. The absence of pain, paired with the absence of reliable recollection, was somehow worse than the tell-tale ache he would expect.

The cold breeze stung faintly as it blew across Fenris’ face; he pressed his lips together, to find them slightly sore. He could have dismissed that as anything or nothing, but now – now he thought of Cullen. They had been alone, and they had been drinking. And despite how much he had wished to ignore it, there was an attraction there. Cullen had been very clear that they should avoid contact - Cullen was afraid of contact, afraid of the damage Fenris could do if he let his guard down. And Fenris knew that feeling well. It was what had kept him from Hawke's side for nearly seven years.

Fenris scrubbed his knuckles over the hair above his ears. To not remember, though - and yet he couldn't imagine Cullen doing anything without Fenris willing - but how could...

There was a shout from below and Fenris flinched, glancing down towards the courtyard. No one was looking in his direction, but he suddenly felt exposed. Years on the run had taught him to fear open spaces, and that instinct sent a bloom of alarm through him. His heart thudded a warning. Get to cover.

There was some sort of turret nearby, similar to the one that contained Cullen’s office – Fenris forced himself to walk despite the near-overwhelming urge to run, and he tried the handle with a feigned semblance of calm. It was dark inside, and that was enough; he snatched open the door and stepped through, pulling it closed behind him.

It was dim, and still, the air as cold as it was on the battlements. It was also – thankfully – empty. Half-crouching, limbs tensed and his heart still drumming in his chest, Fenris rapidly scanned his surroundings. Shafts of pale light filtered down through the cracked and rotted wood that had once comprised an upper level to reveal crates and barrels stacked haphazardly around the space, beside piles of ancient splintered timber and mossy stone. In one corner lay a bunk bed frame, a battered table leaning up against it on its side. Fenris picked his way over to it, and crawled into the dark space between the two discarded pieces of furniture. He crouched there on his haunches, keeping his breathing silent as though any moment a group of hunters would crash through the door in search of him.

Fenris crouched behind a screen of rushes, his sword clasped between his hands, forcing his breath to still. His heart hammered in his chest so hard he was sure Danarius would hear it.

“I know you are here, Fenris. There is no hiding from me.”

Izava reached out to lay her hand on his forearm. She was tawny-skinned and battle-scarred, her dark hair wound into braids. She bared her teeth savagely. She had not been raised in fear of mages; she had been raised to make them fear, hunting them from the shadows.

But Danarius had captured the rest of the hunting party, lined up on their knees in the sand before his soldiers. It had been a close fight, but the fog warriors were outnumbered; with the dancer dispatched by Danarius, there had been no fog to hide in.

“I will give you one final chance, my pet. If you do not come out of your own volition, I will have to resort to other means of persuasion.” A slice, a choked-off cry, the spatter of droplets across the beach. Fenris’ hands shook. He knew this routine well – Fenris was too valuable to damage, so any misstep too grave to be punished by the agony of Danarius’ magic on his markings was taken out on others. “I suggest you think very carefully about your decision.” There is a scream, ended abruptly by the hiss of steel in flesh.

Her hand on his arm tightened, her eyes shining.

He had been living in limbo, in a dream, and its days had always been numbered. Fenris took a ragged breath in and stood up, turning to face his Master.

Danarius stood at the base of the dune. His hair was longer than Fenris remembered and combed back, his beard cut differently, but those hooded eyes, pale and imperious, fixed Fenris with a familiar impassive stare. “Ah, so you have come to your senses.” There was a shallow scratch on Danarius’ forearm, another at the side of his face, blood seeping into his ornate robes; the fog dancer had not gone down without a fight. Danarius leaned almost imperceptibly against his staff where he stood.

Two of the captured fog warriors lay dead, their blood seeping into the sand. Six more knelt in a row, grim-faced, chins high. A helmeted Tevinter soldier wiped his sword off on the back of a corpse.

Danarius stepped past them, opening his arms in a welcoming gesture despite the hardness in his eyes. “Come here, my pet.”

Fenris obeyed, woodenly, competing instincts screaming within him to fight, to run, to fall at Master’s feet. Finally he stood before Danarius, who stretched out a hand and fondly cupped Fenris’ cheek. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, and now Fenris can see the possessiveness, the exultant triumph in Danarius’ expression. “I will admit, I am rather hurt, Fenris. I come all this way to retrieve you and you greet me with this reluctance?” Danarius raised his eyebrows. “Your misguided rabble did for several of my men, trying to keep my own property from me. I do think some manner of punishment is in order, don’t you?” He dropped his hand away, then gestured expansively to the line of warriors still kneeling. “Kill them.”

Fenris took a jerky step back, eyes wide.

“Kill them, Fenris. One good turn deserves another after all – give them a final mercy.” The pale grey eyes were ice again, though Danarius smiled faintly. “Or I will have them hamstrung and cast into the ocean to drown.”

Fenris hunched down, making himself smaller. Blood, salt, and ocean air. The sand beneath his bare feet red and wet. The scream of a woman who had showed him how to brew wine from jungle fruit and make rope from plant fibres, the blood-choked rasp of a man who had sewn the clothing Fenris wore.

The last in the line was a woman named Jia. She had two children back in the village, he knew, and a beautiful voice when she sang. Her black hair was matted with blood at the temple where a soldier had struck her, and she was trembling where she stood. She closed her eyes as he lifted the blood-drenched sword.

He ran her through.

Her eyes flew open again, wide with pain and fear. She crumpled, gripping weakly onto the hilt of his sword still jutting from her chest; his hands were shaking too much to keep hold of it and she took it with her as she fell. He watched the life drain away from her, her face becoming a fixed mask as she stared sightless at him.

Fenris’ legs gave out and he collapsed onto his knees. He bowed his head.

A hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Very good, Fenris. They should not have tried to keep you from me.” Danarius paused, and his fingers tightened until his long nails dug painfully into Fenris’ skin. “Nothing can keep you from me. Remember that.”

Fenris looked down at Jia’s body, and some primal horror boiled up from within him, bristling over his scalp and hot behind his eyes. He could not face this life, not anymore. He wrenched himself free and scrabbled to his feet, backing away from Danarius, from the blood-stained weapon, from everything his life had been.

The mage’s eyes narrowed, and then he threw back his head and laughed.

“What do you think you will do, Fenris?” He raised his hand, lightning crackling over his fingertips. “I alone have true power over tho–”

A dark-fletched arrow sprouted from Danarius’ throat, cutting off his words.

Danarius staggered and fell, clutching at his neck; Fenris spun, eyes darting back towards the screen of rushes. Izava stood there, bow still held extended, her face wet with tears and twisted with regret.

“Run, brother!” she yelled, and loosed another arrow.

Fenris sat in the half-dark, arms propped on his knees, head tipped forward, until the irrational burst of panic had calmed. Danarius was long-dead, and there would be no more hunters. He inched his breastplate forward and found the narrow pocket sewn into the inside of his shirt. He kept two things there beside his heart, but this time he extracted a small bronze amulet on a narrow strip of leather. The face depicted a griffon, carved in a simplistic, angular style. The fog warriors’ tales said that griffons came from Seheron, many centuries ago, and such amulets were supposed to protect the wearer. He didn’t know who had carved this one, and in reality he did not need a physical reminder to remember those he had slain that day: he had carried them with him for years before Hawke found the amulet in the vault of an Orlesian duke, far from its island origins. But he kept it with him nonetheless, a sign of respect to those whose kindness towards him had been repaid with blood. His existence was bound in so many ways to that mist-shrouded place with its endless war, where he was told he was born, where he had taken his first steps to freedom. He closed his fingers around it and tucked it back against his chest.

Perhaps he should have gone back to Seheron, when he could not remain in Kirkwall, now that there was no one to pursue him. Instead, he came to this frozen place. For all its significance, Seheron was not and would never be home.

The closest thing he’d ever had to a home, was being with Hawke. And Skyhold was as close as he could get to Hawke.

His fingers grazed against the fabric tucked inside the pocket beside the fog warrior amulet; a piece of red scarf, thin and threadbare with age and use. Too fragile to wear anymore, wound around his wrist as it had once been, but too important not to carry with him.

He got to his feet and rolled his shoulders with deliberate casualness, straightening his back. He felt grounded again. Hawke had always forgiven Fenris for anything – he knew of the warriors and the beach, of all the damage which Danarius made sport, every shame Fenris hid within himself. It had never mattered, even for a moment.

Fenris walked to the opposite door and strode out through it, heading towards Cullen’s office with renewed purpose.

He would ask, and Cullen would tell him - he was a reasonable man. A kind man - he remembered Cullen's concern, his hands smoothing the blankets over Fenris' injured feet. There was nothing to fear from him. Of all people he could imagine kissing, well... he could have done far worse.

He was just about to knock, knuckles poised above the wood, when he heard the crash from inside.

~

Chapter Text

Moments earlier

“I don’t really know crap about lyrium,” Bull admitted, arms crossed over his broad chest. “If it’s got you worried, though, I trust it’s worth worrying over. But stick to a decision, Cullen – I don’t think the elf’s in any state to handle mixed messages.” He cocked his head, his one-eyed gaze sharp as he surveyed Cullen. “Really, I don’t think either of you are.”

“I didn't intend for it to happen.” Cullen massaged the bridge of his nose, more from habit than anything else; the headache had yet to reappear. He only wished he could enjoy the relief, rather than worrying about what the cost would be later. “Getting to know him better, he has… made an impression.”

Bull grunted. “Interesting way of putting it. Can’t just say you don’t remember him being so pretty?”

Cullen stepped back from his desk. “It’s not that–” Bull raised an eyebrow and Cullen threw up his hands in frustration. “I’m not denying it. But it's truly not just that.” Cullen looked down. “I’m drawn to him, somehow, whatever I tell myself. But even if the void-taken lyrium was no concern, in his circumstances, with Hawke so recently gone – how in good conscience could I pursue anything?”

Bull snorted and rolled his good eye. “There’s no right way to grieve; I’m sure you know that. Losing someone doesn’t mean you have to be alone forever.” He held up his large hand palm out, cutting off the protest forming on Cullen’s lips. “Yes – you can't ignore the lyrium, either.” He frowned thoughtfully. “You don’t have to drink it to get the effects?”

Cullen turned towards the narrow window closest to his desk. “We were always told so, but after yesterday – no.” He leaned his back against the wall of the alcove. “I know too well how that power feels.”

“But it’s gone, right?”

At length, Cullen nodded, already wary of the direction this conversation was taking.

Bull rubbed idly at the fresh bruise on the side of his ribs. “Well, how long did it take to get out of your system when you first stopped?” The floor creaked under Bull’s feet as the Tal-Vashoth shifted his weight again. “Can’t have been this quick, surely.”

“Not you, too,” Cullen protested. “You sound like Dorian. He plucked some idea from the ether that Fenris is the ultimate lyrium addiction treatment. That being in contact with him somehow gets rid of the withdrawal symptoms, but since the lyrium doesn’t actually get into my system it can’t feed the addiction.”

“And are you sure that’s wrong? Sounds pretty handy if not.”

Cullen pushed off the wall, irritation flaring in him. “Right, and there would be nothing questionable in it at all, so long as he’s serving some ulterior motive.” He shook his head. “Even if he were willing, I should what? Just – assume the best, never mind the risk of what that could do to me? Or him?”

Bull shrugged, studiously calm. “I’m not suggesting you do anything, Cullen.” He folded his arms again. “Not like I’d be the person to ask, anyway. That day I met Krem, I mean, there was no logical way to excuse my giving up an eye to save an enemy soldier.” He reached up to scratch at the bands of pink scar tissue that branched out from underneath his eyepatch. “I made myself less of an asset, it didn’t fit with my mercenary cover story – I had no explanation the Ben-Hassrath would have bought. It was just as well the full account of that barfight never reached Par Vollen… not that it matters now, of course.” A shadow passed across his face, a furrowing of his brows, a tightness in the line of his mouth – but it vanished as Bull cleared his throat and went on: “So I know what it’s like when you just… yeah, okay, have a connection, no matter how bad an idea it should be.” Bull was silent for a moment, considering, and then one side of his broad mouth quirked up in a smile. “Though I gotta say, based on that experience… impulsive decision kinda worked out for me. Anyway,” Bull headed towards the main door that led out across the walkway to the Great Hall, “thanks for clearing that up. And hey – whatever you do, you should at least find him and explain what happened. He didn’t exactly seem thrilled when he realised.” Bull shoved open the door, ducking to fit his impressive horns through. “After that I guess you’re free to avoid him all you want.”

Cullen listened to Bull’s retreating steps – surprisingly light given the Tal-Vashoth's bulk – and braced his arms either side of the window. He scowled down at the crosshatched panes, too preoccupied with his thoughts to get any impression of what was happening beyond them.

He remembered Fenris being formidable, back in Kirkwall, but he’d forgotten just what a force of nature he was in a fight – or perhaps he had never been able to spare the attention, given the number of shades and abominations on the field both times they’d fought together. But Cullen had never seen Bull so thoroughly outclassed. And that was without the lyrium.

Cullen arched his neck, dropping his chin towards his chest. He didn’t want to think of it, of all the insanity that cursed stuff had brought out in the world. Of dead slaves and mindless templars. Of a fear that made friendship impossible, and thoughts of more utter madness.

“You are very loud, Commander Cullen.”

Cullen lurched back from the window, pivoting so fast his elbow caught the candelabra standing beside him and sent it crashing into the desk. It took a half-full wine bottle and a sheaf of papers with it, the bottle shattering on the stone floor.

“I meant to knock. Did I knock?” Cole asked, a faintly confused frown crossing his pale face. “I have been getting better at remembering, mostly.”

Cullen righted the candelabra, snatching up the wine-spattered candles. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. "I was thinking-" He hissed in a breath as his thumb caught on a shard of glass.

“Yes,” Cole said simply. “I heard it. I was feeding the birds… I wasn’t trying to hear. But I can’t not hear.”

The door opened suddenly, and – of all people – Fenris was standing there. He stared at Cullen, the mess on the floor, then Cole; he took a wary step back when his eyes fell on the latter. At the sight of him Cullen felt the now-familiar rush of tense energy, the quickening of his pulse. 

“Hello, Fenris,” Cole said, clasping his narrows hands in front of himself. “You are loud, too. Both of you, circling like a dance.”

Fenris’ eyes drifted from Cole back to Cullen, the wariness barely softening.

Cole's attention had returned to Cullen as well, and he almost whispered as he began to speak: “Fears and fixation in equal share. Left lyriumless, can’t do it again.” Cole took a step closer, tilting his hat back so that Cullen could see the ice-blue eyes framed by his tangled blonde hair. “Don’t eat him,” the former spirit said solemnly, and Cullen might have laughed if he weren't frozen in shocked mortification. “Lyrium doesn’t want to hurt. But the Templars crush it up and eat it, until it eats away at them. A kiss can't hurt you.”

Abruptly, Cole’s head swivelled to face Fenris, who took another jerky step backwards. “I am yours, even now.” Cole gave a little sigh, looking up and then back to Fenris again. “But the hawk flew too far, for so long." His voice dropped lower, the pattern of speech changing: "I wanted to make him happy, but all I did was leave him behind.”

Fenris stopped stock still, green eyes wide. “Hawke said this?”

Cole nodded readily, seeming to come at least a little out of the trance-like state he was in. “Yes. But he couldn’t help it. Nightmares of lyrium turning slowly red beneath the skin – I have to protect him.” Cole turned his face down again, the brim of his hat once more shielding his eyes. “He was sorry, all the same.”

They were all still a moment, neither Fenris nor Cullen seeming to know how to react to Cole. Cole looked up again and glanced between the two of them, his expression frustrated. “No, no, that won’t do it! It is so hard to help.” He glanced down at the shards of the smashed bottle. “I could bring wine. With honey? It makes a nightingale smile – why not a lion, a wolf?”

Cullen shook his head, cradling his bleeding thumb in his other hand. “Cole, you must know by now…” he managed, “not everything can just be fixed.”

“I will find another way to help,” Cole said, sounding all at once like a stubborn teenager and not a mind-reading fade spirit. He turned and strode out of the door; he seemed to yank it closed behind him in irritation, but the door clicked silently into the frame despite its momentum.

For a while, both of them just stared after Cole.

It was Fenris who finally broke the silence again: “What happened last night?” He said it quietly, without inflection. It didn’t sound like an accusation.

Cullen looked down at his hands, watching the dot of blood well out of the nick on his thumb. He could feel the blush spreading up his face and down over his neck. The ends of his ears were burning hot. “You – kissed me. You were half asleep, I… I think you mistook me for Hawke.” He shook his head. "I should never have reciprocated. It was unconscionable of me, and I…”

“Then it was I who initiated it,” Fenris interrupted in that deep murmur of his. “And I remember what you had said – I had promised distance.” He frowned, a furrow forming between his dark eyebrows. "So it is I who must apologise.”

“No,” Cullen protested, his face still overly-warm. “Not at all. Really, you were… in no state to remember that.”

Fenris began to pace back and forth across the rug that lay before Cullen’s desk. Just as Cullen began to find the pause unbearably awkward, Fenris spoke again: “What is the chance he is right, about the lyrium? That it would not harm you?”

Cullen stared at Fenris for a moment. “Cole often knows things he shouldn’t,” he finally managed. His frame thrummed with nervous energy, and the room felt uncomfortably warm. “I just – he can't be sure. How could he be?”

Fenris paused in the centre of the rug. “What would make you sure?” He returned to his pacing, his boots almost soundless as he measured out his steps.

Cullen hesitated, watching Fenris' progress back and forth. “All I can do really is wait and see, assuming…” he coughed lightly, dropping his voice to a mumble: “assuming I can keep my distance better this time.” He honestly couldn’t quite understand Fenris’ purpose in all this. The elf looked preoccupied, even troubled. “Ah… why?”

Fenris' frown deepened. “I came here intending to… confront you.” He lapsed into quiet again for a few more steps, crossing the rug once more before stopping to face Cullen properly. “But -" Fenris crossed his arms lightly before him. "Do you desire me?"

Cullens stomach lurched, and he felt the rush of warmth over his face and neck that could only mean he was blushing again. When Fenris went on, his grim expression seemed so at odds with the words that it was almost comical: "I find I am… far from averse to the thought of kissing you.”

Cullen blinked, thoroughly taken aback. “Uh… well, ah... that is..." He swallowed and tried again: "Maker - I have no expectations, know that, but yes,” he admitted, barely above a whisper. “Yes. But even so–” He hesitated, feeling pinioned by those green eyes with their dark lashes, but he forced himself to look away. Cole was right to say he was frightened. He was afraid of losing the one thing he’d always relied on absolutely, through everything – control.

“Would a week be enough?” Fenris asked.

“A… week?” Cullen felt lost again.

“A week,” Fenris repeated, “Apart. For you to be sure that my markings have not damaged you. For us both to be sure that the… interest remains mutual.”

Despite himself, Cullen felt a tense excitement building from the pit of his stomach, and his heart beat a little faster. "And then what?"

Fenris gave him a subtle, almost predatory smile, raising one expressive eyebrow. “I suppose you will have to wait and see.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen murmured. He couldn’t quite believe he was being – there was no other word for it – propositioned, by Fenris. The subtle smirk on Fenris’ face had him half-tempted to forget all attempts at caution. Of course another part of him, the part that had all reason on its side, wanted to reject this whole thing out of hand, and yet…

“Well. I suppose I will, then.” Cullen dragged his hand back through his hair, somehow finding a smile of his own. “So. Does this mean I won’t see you before then? Will you be all right?”

Fenris breathed out a low laugh. “I will be fine, Commander. I’m sure Varric and the Inquisitor will find employment enough for me.” Fenris inclined his head. “Until then.”

Then he left. As the door closed behind him, Cullen sank into his chair, trying to wrap his head around what exactly had just happened. The course of these sorts of attachments was rarely smooth for Templars, which was part of the reason he hadn’t had many, but even by those standards this was… convoluted. Not to mention risky. Still, if there was even a chance Cole could be right...

Whether he was or not, Cullen already knew it was going to be a long week.

Cole lunged forward in the ankle deep snow, stabbing another dagger hole through the target dummy before him. A neat line of stab wounds ran diagonally from the dummy’s hip to shoulder. Cassandra sat on a nearby bench, watching him over the top of the book propped on her lap. Cole didn’t often ‘train’ as such: he seemed somehow to know what to do with the daggers he carried without anything so mundane as practice. She watched as he turned away from the dummy only to pivot around and ram the second blade in exactly where the first had been, without so much as looking.

She was just about to ask if everything was all right when Cole straightened, his expression becoming faintly puzzled as he yanked the blade back out. “Oh,” he said. Then – of all things – he gave a delighted little laugh. “That’s good!” Still smiling, he turned and swept both daggers across the dummy’s neck. As he stepped back, the dummy’s straw filled head leaned to one side and toppled to the ground, neatly separated from the body.

Cassandra turned her gaze pointedly to the page of her book, shaking her head. There were some things, she reasoned, she did not want to know.

Chapter Text

Cullen checked the picket line one final time, making sure all the halters were securely tied. He worked quickly – the throbbing in his head was all the more noticeable now that he was standing still – but he didn’t rush. The shaggy Avvar ponies were spirited, and he couldn’t risk them fighting or trying to bolt overnight. Satisfied the mounts would still be there when they were ready to set off in the morning, Cullen pulled his cloak a little tighter against the cold and trudged up to the cave.

The avalanche had happened almost a week earlier, in the pass that snaked up through the mountains to Skyhold. There was no way to gauge the damage to the road without heading out there to investigate. Cullen had leapt at the chance of a distraction – at that point it had been barely a day since his rather astounding conversation with Fenris, and with the headache already back and threatening worse to come he had been in dire need of some occupation more absorbing than paperwork. He knew there was a chance he was setting himself up for going through the worst withdrawal symptoms again on some frozen mountainside… but it was better than sitting idle in his office wondering when the downward spiral would start.

A dusting of snowflakes drifted in the icy breeze, and Cullen frowned up at the grey sky above them. At least they wouldn’t be sleeping in a tent if it turned into a proper snowstorm; Leliana’s agents and Harding’s scouts between them had mapped out endless caves and bolt-holes in the mountains around Skyhold, so they had never been short of shelter for their night’s stop.

This particular cave was set in a sloping cliff face, between two stone buttresses that curved out like draped fabric and shielded the entrance from the worst of the wind and weather. The cave opened out onto the broad top of a craggy, pitted boulder some feet above the surface of the snow; someone had chipped a rudimentary ladder into the side, which Cullen clambered up.

He had to stoop to walk inside, but after a few yards the space opened out enough for him to stand upright. It was damp and chilly, but at least there was no wind. He nodded to the two soldiers already at work laying out the bedrolls, the yellow light of a lantern supplementing the wisps of grey daylight that made it this far into the cave. “Commander.” Hassup grinned up at him with a small salute, cheeks and lips red from cold. “This reminds me of hunting round Lothering back in the day – looking for hibernating bears.”

The other soldier – a strongly-built dwarven woman with short, sleek black hair and a ruddy complexion – scoffed as she crouched to unbuckle the straps on the last bedroll. “That doesn’t seem fair,” she protested. “Shouldn’t you at least give the things a fighting chance?”

Hassup shrugged, wrapping his cloak more firmly around his neck and shoulders. “Have you seen the size of the bears in the Hinterlands, Marsi?”

“I certainly have,” came a light voice from the entrance. “This huge one caught us by surprise near the Villa in the south… lucky Blackwall’s quick with a shield.” The last of their party finished stomping the loose snow off his furs and joined them inside the cave, carrying a double armful of firewood – the Inquisition kept supplies dry inside their hideaways, but they would restock what they used. Laying down his burden at the modest woodpile, he dropped his hood back to reveal a head of red hair and delicate pointed ears.

The Inquisitor breathed out slowly, almost a sigh as he picked out dry kindling and timber for their fire. “Elgar’nan, I’m not ready to go back to Skyhold yet.” No-one had really been surprised when Revem insisted on accompanying the expedition; he was more at ease on the road than anywhere else, and seemed to relish the menial work of travelling and camping.

“All due respect, your Worship,” Marsi said flatly, “but you’re mad. We may not have gotten caught in a blizzard – yet – but it’s still bloody freezing.”

“I get restless, being inside four walls for so long,” Revem admitted.

“Must be a Dalish thing, I don’t know.” Marsi shook her head, turning back to her task. “I’m just looking forward to a bowl of something that isn’t trail rations, and sleeping with my boots off.”

Revem laughed as he straightened with his supplies. “I’ll put some rocks on to heat, bring some embers in – even sentry duty won’t be so bad.”

“Well, until anyone needs the latrine, anyway,” Marsi pointed out, with a comically exaggerated shiver. For all her light-hearted griping, Marsi had more than earned her keep in the last few days. She was a veteran Inquisition soldier, skilled enough with the battered two-handed mace she carried to give any opportunistic bandits pause, but she’d also been raised Miner Caste in Orzammar and knew more about shifting earth and rock than anyone else at Skyhold. Hassup and Cullen, both Fereldan farm stock, had been holding shovels and picks just about since they could walk, but neither of them came close to her efficiency.

And her skill had been put to good use, as the road proved to be more than half-buried by the collapse. It had taken nearly two days’ solid work between them to see the pass cleared of snow and debris – at least to the point that it could be travelled. Revem would have Josephine organise a maintenance crew to come down once the heaviest of the snowfalls were over for the year.

After each day of riding, digging, carting snow and rock, Cullen had gone to sleep every night expecting the worst – to wake shaking and vomiting in agony, desperate with lyrium thirst – but the worst never came. Five mornings came and went: he woke, helped break down the camp and went to work with nothing more intrusive than the familiar niggling aches and pains. Plain physical tiredness kept even the nightmares at bay. He felt… good – or as close as he ever usually did.

And so where before he had been anxious to get out of Skyhold, to put some distance between himself and a certain white-haired elf… now he had rather the opposite problem.

Giving himself a mental shake, Cullen gathered up the rest of the wood Revem had set aside and trailed the Inquisitor back to the cave’s mouth. Above, the cave’s ceiling sloped upwards, then divided to join with the two jutting walls of stone separated either side of it. The rock formed a sort of natural chimney, and the Inquisitor and his Commander made quick work of constructing a campfire beneath it. “If only I could get Dorian into camping,” Revem mused, leaning forward to place the smouldering nest of tinder and char-cloth under the kindling.

Cullen snorted. “I think that’s a lost cause unfortunately.” He hadn’t travelled with Dorian much, but over the course of their friendship he’d fielded his fair share of complaints about everything from the cold, to boots ruined with mud, to the discomfort of sleeping on the ground.

Revem sighed a little, easing himself back to sit cross-legged. “Perhaps. Though an aravel is surprisingly comfortable, you know…” he broke off, laughing softly at himself. “Wishful thinking.” He was quiet a moment, looking into the fire, his wrists resting lightly on the tops of his folded knees as though he were meditating. “I can’t believe how much I miss him,” he said finally. “It hasn’t even been a week. We’ve been apart much longer before.”

“Maybe, but with more to worry about than snow,” Cullen tugged off his gloves and held his hands palms-out to the fire.

“That’s true.” Revem smiled, looking down.

Cullen found a smile touching the corners of his own lips. Revem and Dorian had more than earned their happiness – it was amazing that the relationship had survived all the chaos of their war against Corypheus.

Revem sat forward, peering closely at the Commander. “How are you managing these days?” he asked softly.

“Fine,” Cullen said, and chuckled at the dubious expression Revem shot at him. “Honestly.” And he was. Exhausted and cold, his hands throbbing with blisters and the beginnings of mild frostbite, his head aching and his joints sore and stiff – but none of these things were any concern compared to what he had expected.

The concerns he had were no less distracting, but they were much less unpleasant to dwell on. He thought of leaf-green eyes and a rare smile on a serious mouth, and that now-familiar sense of protectiveness came over him. Distance had not dulled his fascination with Fenris at all, and he wondered what it had done for Fenris’ own interest. It would be difficult, after all of this, if he were to return and find Fenris had reconsidered the wisdom of their pursuing anything. 

Revem was still watching him, his expression even more dubious, and too late Cullen realised his expression had slipped into something that must not seem very ‘fine’. “I am – preoccupied,” Cullen explained slowly, and Maker help him but he refused to blush over this. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s... Fenris?” Revem asked flatly.

“Ah.” Cullen looked determinedly into the fire, self-conscious. Thinking about it was one thing, but having to actually explain himself out loud was quite another. “I thought perhaps you knew more than you let on. Bull?”

“Sort of.” Revem shrugged, smiling. “He was concerned about you – and concerned how we’d manage if you did fall apart, out here.” The elf untied his hair before beginning to rebraid it, hands deftly tightening the woven pattern. “He gave me only the most relevant points of the situation, as I’m sure you can imagine. Being in contact with Fenris had a strange effect on you, you might have the worse lyrium withdrawal again. But I suspect – I already suspected before – that there’s more to it.”

Cullen shifted, feeling incredibly awkward. Finally he cleared his throat.

“I always found him very - compelling." he began, stilted. It shouldn’t be so hard to speak of, especially to the Inquisitor. "But much moreso, since he came to Skyhold."

Revem nodded, but remained quiet, clearly determined to listen.

Cullen forced himself to go on. “Apparently, he returns my – regard. It seemed idiotic, at first.” Cullen shook his head. “The lyrium had, as you put it, a ‘strange effect’ on me. The pain went away, then it came back much worse than it had been in months…” He closed his eyes, for a moment feeling that jolt of fear rising in his throat again. “I was convinced it would undo all the work it had taken to get this far. The day he attacked you, when I got in his way I somehow… absorbed the power of the markings. It felt like I’d had lyrium again.” Though the fear had mostly faded, Cullen was still in no hurry to ever repeat that experience. He would have to ask Dorian to look into the mechanism of it… perhaps when it was no longer so unnerving to speak of.

Cullen pushed it from his mind, concentrating again on the events that followed. “He knew my concerns, he was sympathetic to them. But when he slept in my office that night, we’d been drinking, and I woke him from a bad dream.” Cullen swallowed a couple of times to clear the lump in his throat, before he could speak properly again. “He kissed me.”

Revem’s eyebrows went up, and he made a non-committal noise as he folded his arms over his chest.

“He didn’t even remember it the next day. When he found out, he was… far less angry about it than I expected. In fact, I would say he was more… intrigued, than angry.” Cullen looked up, smoothing his hair back with both hands. “Actually, he sort of propositioned me. But with the lyrium such an unknown... well, he proposed a week spent strictly apart. To gauge what damage had been done, and work out just how foolish it would be to…” He suddenly found himself having to suppress a smile; the whole situation was almost funny. Star-crossed lovers – or potential lovers, at least. “To pursue anything.” He shook his head, letting the pause stretch a moment. “And, I still find this hard to believe, but it seems things on my end are markedly less dire than I expected.”

“Surely that is good thing?” Revem said, breaking his silence at last.

“It is,” Cullen confirmed, and then immediately countered himself with a sigh. “That part is a great relief, believe me. However, he didn’t exactly come to Skyhold in good shape for any of this, either.”

“Of course. He’s still in mourning,” Revem acknowledged slowly.

“Yes.” Cullen scanned the slice of snow-lined landscape they could see from their hideaway. “His offer seemed… impulsive. Even if he still wants to go through with this – whatever it is – when we return, I don't want to be another cause of regret.” When Cullen glanced at Revem, he was surprised to see the Inquisitor was smiling faintly. “What is it?”

“You are so concerned for him, for how you might hurt him, but you have done nothing but look after him so far - despite the risk to yourself. You are a good man, Cullen.” His blue eyes were warm in his youthful, earnest face. “You are considerate and selfless. I doubt very much you will give Fenris reason to regret anything that may happen between you.”

Such flattery made Cullen feel immediately self-conscious. He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze stealing sideways again. “Thank you, Inquisitor.”

They lapsed mostly into silence then, and soon Marsi and Hassup brought the cookpot and sack of provisions to begin preparing their basic supper. As they worked, and later as they settled down for the night, Cullen let himself think of Fenris – and of what could be. He had been alone a long time. In Kirkwall there had been no one special – just the occasional night spent with a stranger – and since joining the Inquisition, there had been no one at all. He had not been interested.

Until now. He lay still, listening to the breathing of the others around him and the distant creak of trees in the wind. He wondered if, some miles away up the mountain, Fenris was thinking of him.

Chapter Text

Sera skidded to the side, letting out a high pitched peal of laughter as the sweep of Fenris’ sword missed her by inches, before she pivoted to press the attack. Her wooden dagger skated off the flat of the blunted weapon as he brought it up to parry.

“Ooh you are fast!” she said, equal parts accusing and admiring as she darted back out of reach.

“You also,” he panted, as they fell into step circling one another. He was sure if he could just hit her he could win, but they were at a stalemate – and after months without regular combat, sparring under the awkward heft of a training sword was wearing on him. He adjusted his grip and feinted, swinging around at the last moment to strike from the other side. She ducked easily, grinning, and hurled something at him as she rose from the crouch.

His vision exploded pink and he staggered backwards, clapping one hand to his face. The sword twisted out of his grasp just before a weight crashed into his chest; the next thing he knew he was on his back in the snow-crusted mud of the training yard. Blinking rapidly, he managed to clear his eyes enough to open them to a squint. Sera winked down from where she sat straddling him. “Chalk bomb,” she said smugly. “We were going to be at it all day, the way we were going.” She ruffled his hair, then held up her palm for his inspection: it came away bright pink, much to Fenris’ chagrin.

“I should have learned from Hawke never to duel rogues,” Fenris growled as she clambered off him and helped him up. “He once used a smoke bomb on me then vaulted onto a storage shed and hid.”

Sera giggled maniacally, before her expression became uncharacteristically sober. “I really, really liked him,” she said.

Fenris bowed his head, all thoughts of his slush-coated back or chalk-doused hair immediately banished by the memory of golden-brown eyes smiling in a bearded face. “Yes. I did, as well.”

After a moment, she bent to peer up into his sombre face. “Just so you know though, I don’t think it means you liked him any less if you like Cullen too.”

Fenris took a step back, head snapping up to glare at her.

“Got it in one, hey?” she said. “Well, that and I might have heard Creepy mumbling about it.” She gave a comic shudder. “Don’t think I’m much convinced by his ‘being a normal person’ thing.”

“I am not discussing this,” Fenris said firmly, brushing at the powder coating his face and armour.

“Aw,” Sera pouted. “Well, maybe I am! Hawke was all about fun. I think he’d want you to take all the chances you get, don’t you?”

Fenris scowled, but without the genuine anger he might have directed at another trying to pry into his life. He wasn’t sure what it was about Sera, maybe that she reminded him in a strange way of Isabela. She had the same air of easy familiarity that left no room for hostility.

“It’s not so simple…” he protested.

“By the Maker,” came Cassandra’s now-familiar voice. They both glanced over to see the Seeker approaching from the smithy. She looked torn between frowning and laughing, lips twitching as she surveyed him. “What have you done to Fenris?”

He scrubbed at his hair, his scowl only deepening at the cloud of pink powder that bloomed off him. “Of course you made it pink,” he muttered. “Rogues.”

“I’m giving him proper useful advice,” Sera stated, ignoring him blithely. Before he could protest, she went on: “He wants into Cullen’s pants. Should just get in there, I reckon.”

“What?” Cassandra said, her winged eyebrows lifting. “Cullen and… Fenris?”

“There is nothing to speak of,” Fenris insisted, shivering as the chill seeped through from his soaked back.

“Oh but it would be something if you both got brave about it,” Sera said, turning to Cassandra. “I bet Cassandra would get a kick out of that. Don’t pretend, we’ve all seen your little books.”

“Sera!” Cassandra sputtered, two spots of colour forming high on her cheeks.

“I have seen no books,” Fenris pointed out, watching Cassandra’s blush deepen further.

Cassandra coughed slightly into her hand, glaring as Sera opened her mouth to speak. “No, you will not show him!” Cassandra said firmly, cutting the elven rogue off. “You should not badger Fenris about such things – and what have you covered him with?”

“Chalk,” Sera supplied, still wearing that irrepressible grin. “His colour, yeah?”

Cassandra made a disgusted noise, then turned determinedly to Fenris. “What I think of it does not come into it,” she said, softening her tone. “Though… there is something to be said for taking what chances we can to be happy. You have neither of you had an easy time of things. To find a little happiness, even if it may be fleeting, that is a thing to be treasured.”

Sera giggled, rolling her eyes. “You prissy romantic!” She flicked her gaze to Fenris, leaning sideways. “Not that she isn’t right, right?”

“Leave it, Sera,” Fenris said tightly, feeling his patience with the other elf beginning to finally unravel.

“A pity he left Skyhold,” Cassandra mused, slightly starry-eyed. “I did offer to go, but Cullen seemed quite determined.”

“He was,” Fenris acknowledged, a little terse. “I appreciate your advice.” He looked down at his pink-coated hands and grunted his distaste. “But, right now I think my most urgent concern is getting to the baths.”

As he walked away, he heard Cassandra click her tongue. “Why must you prod at him? And where in Thedas are you getting this pink chalk?”

“Oh, I have more,” Sera snickered. “Think pink is your colour?”

“Don’t you dare!” Cassandra exclaimed.

Fenris followed the stone stairway down below Skyhold, to an unassuming rectangular door in a broad rock face. Inside, the light was dim, the air warm and humid. Like so many of the lower structures in Skyhold, the space was a natural cave, this one barely altered from its original form. The entrance was narrow and close, and divided ahead into two further passages. Each was barred by a carved wooden partition with an elaborately painted door – each depicted an elf pouring water from a ewer, the right male and the left female. Fenris remembered how odd he had found it in Kirkwall that the public baths were segregated by sex. In Tevinter, there was no such division – but then, of course, they had their own restrictions. The quality of the facilities changed dramatically depending on whether the patrons were alti, laetantia or soporati, and those available to liberati – freed slaves – were decrepit and unheated.

Fenris pushed open the door to the half reserved for men and followed the passageway further down until he reached the baths proper. Here the cave was broad, and to Fenris’ left the floor dropped away in shallow tiers toward the pools. The only obvious addition to the cave was a large arched window placed high on the uneven stone ahead of him, carved through the rock to permit natural light to filter through from outside. Panels of pale blue stained glass in frames thick with green patina sealed the warmth and humidity away from the freezing temperatures outside; it was ancient, far predating the Inquisition’s arrival, and Fenris suspected very strongly it had been placed by magic.

Directly below the window was a stone carving of a wolf’s head; the eyes glowed an odd blue-tinged orange, and warm water issued from the open mouth to be collected in a broad semi-circular basin below. The eyes were fire runes, and more set into the basin itself ensured the water remained warm. The basin stood in a shallow depression, with small drainage holes set in the bottom carrying away the constant overflow of water that trickled over the edge of the basin. The whole thing was discomforting and familiar in equal measures – Danarius had never needed to resort to making use of public baths, but the facilities in his own properties made similarly extravagant use of magic.

Fenris stopped beside the haphazard row of cubbies chipped into the rock near the entrance. Only one of them was in use – southerners were not only prudish about members of the opposite sex seeing them naked, but apparently were suspicious of bathing generally. As Fenris undressed and took down his hair, a disconcerting amount of pink powder fell off him. He rolled his eyes once again – rogues.

Naked, he headed across to the basin. He breathed the warm air in deeply, sighing in relief; Kirkwall had been bad enough in winter, compared to the hot and humid north. The Frostback mountains were something else again. His skin felt dry and chapped, and his leg and shoulder ached where old injuries had once been left to mend without the aid of a healer. He scooped up a copper jug from a line near the wall, turned back to the basin, and stopped. From here, he could just see the only other occupant of the room: the altus, Dorian, eyes closed lightly as though sleeping, sat half-reclined in the lower pool with his head couched on a rolled towel. Fenris was not self-conscious in the least – not after so many years to become accustomed to staring – but the idea of presenting himself like this for an altus’ appraisal was… for a moment he was tempted to just put his armour back on and leave, pink hair or no. But he was a free man, and this was not Tevinter – here they stood on equal footing. And – fine – while Dorian still presented himself as altus, with his excessive attention to his dress and appearance, he did not act as most of them did. Fenris remembered the way so many had admired his mutilation as they might a particularly well-carved piece of furniture… he could not imagine Dorian doing the same. Gritting his teeth – this is not Tevinter, it is not the same, he is not like them –  he walked over to the stone basin and filled one of the copper ewers left there so he could at least rinse the worst of the chalk off himself.

He poured the warm water directly over his head, tipping his neck back and rifling his spare hand through his hair. As he refilled the jug, he noticed the pigment in the rivulets of water running down his body and grimaced. He doused himself again and set the ewer down so he could splash water directly onto his face from the basin. More or less clean, he flipped his wet hair back over his shoulders. It was getting long, brushing his upper back; perhaps he would find someone to deal with it while he remained at Skyhold. When he turned to head to the nearest pool, he realised the mage’s eyes were now open, and he was watching. Dorian’s lips were parted, his expression one of frank admiration.

Then Dorian’s eyes darted away, embarrassed, and strangely it was that which finally cemented the difference between the ‘altus’ – an image reinforced a thousand times by denizens of the class – and this particular altus. None of Danarius’ associates would have been embarrassed to be caught watching. They would more likely have been enraged by his daring to meet their eye while they did so; he could still so clearly picture Hadriana’s sneer, the imperious lift of the chin.

Fenris went down the curved ramp to the lower pool and stepped into the water, not beside Dorian but not at needless distance. It was a reminder, as much to himself as anyone, that this mage was not an enemy. He was no blood mage, no abomination, not even a Magister. Fenris would always be wary, but he had no reason to be more than wary.

This was the largest of the two pools, formed in a rough crescent perhaps twenty yards across. The water’s surface bubbled and swirled with the flow from the spring far beneath them, almost warm enough to be called hot. The water was little above Fenris’ knees at the edge where Dorian sat, and he stepped past the mage and off the ledge towards the centre of the pool. The floor was uneven, eroded by the flow of water through rock over millenia, but he picked his way across until he could stand almost chest-deep.

“Fenris,” Dorian began, a little awkwardly. “If I appear to have been staring, I should – well, it’s probably because I was. I apologise. Eating properly for the last couple of weeks has clearly–” He sighed, raking his fingers through his wet hair. “Fine. You are exceedingly attractive, and obviously we all should spend more time wielding greatswords. And if you could find it in your heart not to tell Revem, I would appreciate it. If he was only present to admire I would reserve my staring exclusively for him – well, almost exclusively.”

Fenris was lost for a response for a moment, then he surprised both of them when he chuckled. “My lips are sealed.”

Dorian inclined his head in response, with a self-deprecating smile. Then it faded, and he tilted his his head back to gaze up at the expanse of stone above them. Fenris observed him quietly. from what he could make out through the shifting water and the thin veil of steam that lifted from its surface, Dorian had little need to envy Fenris’ physique. He was muscular, especially for a mage – though not as hardened as a warrior, he clearly did not shy from exertion. Fenris remembered that young alti often practiced martial combat with staves; he had accompanied Danarius to an event of that kind once. The Magister had been singularly unimpressed by the idea of mages fighting hand to hand like brainless thugs, until one of the apprentices had been slit open throat to navel on the staff blade of another. After that, he seemed willing to admit the diversion entertaining enough.

Dorian’s face was strikingly handsome, even with his wet hair in disarray and his moustache drooping. His mouth was a little wide, perhaps, and his aquiline nose gave him an aristocratic appearance that went against Fenris’ personal taste – but he had high cheekbones beneath eyes grey as rainclouds, an angular jaw and smooth brown skin without any sign of a scar. Fenris averted his gaze, realising how close he was to staring himself. Pavus was all very well. But he wasn’t Hawke. Or Cullen, his mind supplied.

Cullen was a rougher variant of handsome, all stubble and scarred lip and wayward blond hair. Fair skin and serious amber eyes. For all his promises of caution and control, Fenris couldn’t vouch for what his reaction would have been had it been Cullen he found in the baths alone.

Fenris was saved from his own thoughts when Dorian broke the silence at last. “This is what Tevinter should be,” he said, gesturing between them. “What it must be, one day. Our homeland is like a false idol… a thin veneer of gold painted over rotten wood. Lust for power and every excess that comes along with it has eaten canker-holes through Tevinter’s every foundation. The only choices available are change, or collapse.”

Fenris scoffed lightly, all tempting thoughts of Cullen quashed at once. It was idealistic nonsense, and for a moment he was reminded – to his great distaste – of Anders. “And who will change it, mage? You?”

“That is my hope,” Dorian said quietly. “And I will not be working alone. Not all of my class are blind to reality. Many of the Venatori were more… ‘traditional’ Magisters and their cronies.” Fenris could assume what traditional implied: freest with the blood of their slaves. “With large numbers of them killed in a foreign war, the time will soon come for us to make a decisive move.”

Now he had Fenris’ attention: the elf looked sharply at the mage opposite him. “Then why not do so now?”

“For one, there are still more Venatori cells to root out; we may have beheaded the beast, but it seems they had their claws into every country in Thedas. The Inquisition also has a lot of diplomatic clout in Tevinter… and at present, not being a member of the Magisterium, I actually have more sway in Tevinter in my current position. We have influence enough to effect the choice of heir for some of the seats in the Magisterium left vacant by their Venatori owners; we can publicly back the progressives, while our agents quietly ensure any less palatable choices don’t manage to survive until their appointment.” Dorian’s usual air of affected casualness was gone, now. He sat forward, his brows lightly drawn together, his face intent. “With a more sympathetic audience, and two or three seats of our own on the Magisterium – we could affect real change.”

Fenris considered this. Dorian’s attitude was all determined sincerity. Of course Fenris believed it naïve, even foolish, but – he had once thought dreaming of freedom foolish, too. “Then I wish you luck,” he said honestly.

“I appreciate it.” Dorian’s lips gave a wry twist. “I expect we’ll need it.

Fenris gave a mirthless smile. Turning aside, he closed his eyes and splashed water once more over his face and hair. When he looked up again, it was to find Dorian looking intently at him again – this time with an entirely different and serious expression. “Fenris – Cullen has spoken to you, yes?”

Fenris let out a growl of frustration. “Must I hear everyone’s viewpoint on this?”

Dorian crossed his arms, leaning back against the edge of the pool with a grim expression. “I don’t really care who else has subjected you to their opinions – but Cullen’s one of the few friends I have left, and he’s been through a lot,” Dorian said flatly, then raised his hand as Fenris’ eyebrows went up. “And yes, I can see the irony here, and what do I know about suffering, and so forth. I honestly don’t even know all the specifics of his history. But I just want to say,” Dorian rubbed at his forehead, “please be careful with him.”

Fenris blew out a breath and looked hard at the mage. “You need not remind me.” He was irritated at the implication – the Commander had done much to aid him, and Fenris was not so callous as the request suggested. “It would be poor repayment of the debt I owe him.”

Dorian held Fenris' gaze, expression thoughtful. Then he finally nodded. “Now,” he said airily, climbing to his feet. “If I soak any longer I’ll be in danger of losing my skin like the husk from a grain of rice.” Dorian scooped to snatch up his rolled towel, and Fenris had a brief view of a very shapely backside before it was covered.

Fenris scoffed. “I do not believe you have ever husked rice in your life, altus.”

Dorian scowled. “That doesn’t invalidate the metaphor, does it?” He turned as he tucked the loose end of the towel firmly into the edge at his waist. “I’ll leave you to your ablutions, then. Let you enjoy the peace and quiet – most Fereldans and Orlesians don’t seem to believe in bathing during winter, hot spring or no. Heaven forbid they lose their insulating layer of filth.” He shuddered as he turned to leave, then paused to add over his shoulder: “I should add, as a good friend, that I know personally that Cullen does not share that particular eccentricity.”

And that left Fenris to imagine Cullen and Dorian bathing together – a dangerous thought if ever there was one. After the mage had dressed and left, Fenris dropped down into the water until it eddied around his neck and earlobes. He let out a low chuckle. “I bet Hawke liked him.” He could almost imagine the two of them exchanging witty barbs, Dorian bristling and sardonic, Hawke winking over his cheeky grin.

Loneliness hit him again out of nowhere, yawning like a chasm. Fenris curled over himself with a grimace, dropping below the surface of the water as he screwed his eyes shut. He covered his face with his hands and just stayed, half-floating, until his lungs’ insistent demand for air forced him to surface.

The baths were still empty around him, steam drifting in the warm air. Fenris imagined again what it would have been like if Cullen was here, and a sharp pang of longing cut through him. He knew his decision was made, was unchanged. “I don’t think you’d want me to say it,” Fenris murmured, “but I’m sorry, Hawke.” 

Chapter Text

The people of Skyhold were never short of enthusiasm for the Inquisitor. Whether he had been gone a few days or a month, vanquishing demons or shovelling roads, there was always a crowd waiting to watch and cheer his return. In the Inquisition, no one sneered at his pointed ears or the vallaslin that curved over his cheekbones and up to his temples. From the moment his mark had stopped the endless yawning expansion of the Breach, mere hours after waking in chains, they had seen in him salvation.

The day was wan and sunless, a bitter chill in the air even in the final weeks of winter. But still the people had waited, encased in furs and extra layers, and still they cheered to see him ride through the portcullis.

Revem kept the greetings as short as possible as they moved through the crowd, keenly aware of his companions’ desire to get out of the weather. Once there would have been a group waiting for Cullen, too, on the rare occasions during the war when he actually left Skyhold without his troops – not a crowd of adoring followers, but anxious soldiers carrying urgent missives for his attention. Their absence was a welcome reminder of the peace their efforts had secured. Cullen let his gaze drift over the familiar scene, daydreaming of hot soup and feeling his feet again as he listened to Revem exchange small talk with the eager faces gathered.

When Cullen looked up towards his office, behind and above them, there was an unmistakable black-clad figure just visible between two crenellations. Fenris leaned casually on his elbows, watching the scene below. His long hair hung loose around his face, gleaming silver in the wan grey light. Cullen’s breath caught in his chest at the sight of him. He looked – Cullen must have been blind in Kirkwall not to see how striking the elf was. He was a study in contrasts: white hair and warm brown skin, strong jaw and soft full lips, his slight figure belying a gritty strength. Fenris raised a hand in solemn greeting, his green-eyed gaze intent.

Cullen managed to return the wave, smiling, before a rush of nerves overtook him and he had to lower his eyes.

At that moment, Dorian appeared at the top of the stairs, and Revem immediately abandoned all attempts at being the sage Inquisitor for the people of Skyhold; he dashed towards the steps and took them two at a time, nearly slipping on the icy surface in his eagerness. When he reached the top he threw himself bodily into the mage’s arms, and Dorian staggered backwards from the force of Revem’s enthusiasm, laughing as he engulfed the elf in a hard embrace.

A few in the crowd cheered or laughed at the scene, and Cullen couldn’t help but grin himself despite the tension in the pit of his stomach. It had taken a long time for Dorian to be comfortable with Revem’s overt affection – and some had doubts, at first, about what the Tevinter’s intentions were. But in the end, it was the sort of star-crossed romance that storytellers loved; the Tevinter mage and the Dalish elf, improbable allies to inseparable lovers as they fought together to save Thedas.

Amidst the distraction, Cullen glanced back up behind them – but there was no sign of Fenris. He felt a slight pang of disappointment, which was quickly succeeded by a sort of nervous excitement. He was sure he would see the elf again soon.

Cullen finally made it up to his office, feeling so cold he thought he might hear his bones creak as he stooped to drop his pack on the floor. Then he realised the room was warm; a fire burned in the stove, blazing orange through the closed grate. He wasn’t sure who had taken the time to bother, but it was a welcome gesture; he peeled off his thick gloves as he approached the stove and rubbed his chapped hands in front of it with a sigh of relief.

“I trust your trip went well.”

Cullen startled, though by surprise rather than alarm as he immediately recognised that throaty baritone: he glanced over his shoulder to see that Fenris stood leaning in the alcove behind the desk, watching Cullen. His cloak was draped over Cullen’s chair, and the lyrium markings were stark along the side of his throat and arm where they caught the pale light from the window beside him.

“I’ve had warmer,” Cullen admitted, turning fully around to face the elf. “It was successful enough, though.” The room was dim and warm and it would have lulled Cullen to sleep in any other circumstances; with Fenris present, Cullen's whole frame thrummed with nervous tension. Cullen was almost surprised to find that the nervous energy he felt was mostly anticipation rather than alarm. He had made his choice, and if Fenris’ aligned with his own, it would be made without regrets.

Fenris made a murmured noise of assent, shifting slightly where he stood. “And are you – well?” he asked carefully. It was then that Cullen realised Fenris was also nervous, his frame taut despite his casual pose.

Cullen nodded, smiling shakily, his heart thudding in the base of his throat. This reminded him of being nineteen again, confronted by a determined Surana wanting to know the truth of his infatuation with her. But he was no longer a sputtering teenager… and this time he would not run. “I am well.” He took a step closer. “It appears my fears were… misplaced. Fortunately.” This smile was more genuine. “Very fortunately.”

He looked at Fenris, and now he didn’t see the lyrium markings, the risk, the danger. He saw the man who had stood with them that gruelling day in the Gallows, who had spoken quietly of a lifetime of pain as though it were unremarkable, who had faced down Bull without even breaking a sweat. He remembered the weight of Fenris’ cold body curved over his back… and the warmth of Fenris’ stomach beneath his fingers as their mouths came together barely yards from where they stood. He swallowed. “And you… ?”

Fenris shrugged, glancing away. “I thought on it too many times, but my inclinations are unchanged.” He turned to Cullen once more, lowering his voice as he stepped forward to brace his palms on Cullen’s desk. “I desire you.”

Cullen’s heart lurched in his chest at the words, and his face felt hot enough to burn. He approached slowly, and Fenris watched him, his green eyes dark in the low light. Finally, they stood barely a foot apart; Fenris still propped stiffly against the desk as though he didn’t trust himself to move. Cullen leaned carefully into the elf’s space, his lips beside Fenris’ delicately pointed ear, close enough to feel the heat off his body. “So then. You are not ‘averse’ to kissing me?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

Fenris gave a tiny shudder, a sharp breath, and that was the only warning Cullen had before the elf turned and brought his lips hard against Cullen’s, one hand hooking around Cullen’s waist while the other slid up into his hair. Relief rushed his body at the touch, suffusing him like the warmth from a shot of strong liquor; the niggling headache vanished along with the ache in his bones. Cullen dragged in air, his lips parting willingly as Fenris’ mouth angled over his; their tongues brushed into contact and Cullen sought more, leaning into the kiss as his hands found Fenris’ slender hips.

Cullen was hyper-aware of every point of contact between them, and just having his mouth on Fenris’, his hands tracing the bare skin of his arms, was so arousing he could barely think: he was almost instantly hard. Fenris groaned into the kiss, grabbing the ruff of Cullen’s cloak to pull him closer as his tongue slid over Cullen’s. The point of Cullen’s breastplate dragged across Fenris’ with a metallic screech, and Cullen forced himself to back off. The thought of gouging Fenris was enough to cut through the haze of want – barely.

Fenris stared back at him, eyes half-closed and brows drawn together. “It feels… good,” he murmured, sounding dazed. “Too good.” Cullen’s control just about broke again – he bit his lower lip, letting out a strangled chuckle, but then he sobered as he realised the implication of Fenris’ words. He had said that the markings hurt to touch, yet he had gone into this willingly. And he had been with another, before. “It shouldn’t?” Cullen asked softly, tracing his fingers gently over Fenris’ neck and smiling when the elf arched into the touch.

“Not so… totally,” Fenris said slowly, his voice more even now. “My experience is that there can be pleasure, but also pain, and the line between is frustratingly fine.”

Cullen hummed his consideration, unsure of what to say. “I - I don't quite know… although,” he looked away, shaking his head with the hint of a smile, “I can’t remember it being so good, either. Still.” He looked at Fenris earnestly. “Tell me if I do anything uncomfortable for you.” Cullen hooked his hand gently behind Fenris’ neck, and Fenris’ lips met his once more – gently, kissing briefly and then pulling back only to return again. The elf’s hand trailed up through his hair: a hint of fingernails scraping his scalp made Cullen’s breath catch in his throat, and suddenly they were kissing with urgency once more.

“Cullen? While you were off gallivanting about, I found so…” Dorian froze, mouth open, one hand still on the door he had opened, the other holding a battered leather-bound book.

They separated, Cullen scarlet to his hairline. Fenris’ face was somehow impassive, despite his reddened lips and his tousled hair. He raised one expressive eyebrow as he returned Dorian’s startled gaze.

“I…” It was a good measure of the surprise he’d gotten that it took even Dorian some moments to find his voice again. “Well, nevermind then. I shall leave you to it, shall I?” He pouted slightly as be backed out of the door. “Rather unfair… Revem was dragged into some meeting with Josephine, so some of us have to wait.”

“Dorian,” Cullen growled out, and the mage snapped the door shut behind him with a musical laugh.

“So. Will everyone at Skyhold know before dark?” Fenris asked slowly.

Cullen shook his head immediately. “Not at all – Dorian talks about himself, not other people. He doesn’t gossip. Especially not about this.” Dorian was too familiar with the pain that could be caused by rumour to ever spread them about others. Cullen looked across to Fenris, to find the elf still watching the door with a small frown on his face. “Do you worry that people will talk?”

At that, Fenris looked at him. “Not on my own behalf. But what of you?” He raised an eyebrow, half question, half challenge. “You are one of their leaders. Would you want the Inquisition to know of your... dealings… with me? I am a Tevinter, a former slave, an elf. There is much to disapprove of.”

Cullen turned to face him, startled out of his embarassment. “Fenris, I don’t think anyone will disparage you here – we have people from all corners of Thedas, and all walks of life. Even if they did, honestly I could not care less.” He laid his hands gently on Fenris’ bare upper arms. “Anyone who can't see how incredible you are isn't worth listening to.” He was somewhat amazed at himself, to be saying such things, and he was blushing again – but the words came almost of their own volition. He meant every one.

Fenris stood considering for a moment, his breath coming fast and shallow. Then he stepped back against Cullen, lifting his chin to stare appraisingly at Cullen’s face before his mouth claimed the other man’s again; gently this time, lips barely brushing before pulling back again over and over. But the kiss rapidly built pace, until Fenris was crowding into Cullen, backing him up until the taller man’s back thudded against the wall. There, one of the elf’s leather-clad legs pushed insistently between Cullen’s, his hand sliding down over the front of the Commander’s trousers – it wrought a cut-off moan from the Cullen, and Fenris gave a half-murmured laugh against his neck. “You are overdressed,” the elf said, his deep voice rough.

“And you,” Cullen agreed, catching Fenris’ chin to bring his face up for another kiss. He nipped at Fenris’ bottom lip, making the elf moan low in his throat. “Perhaps we can work on that together?”

Chapter Text

The first bell rang at dawn, as soon as the light reached the sundial in Skyhold’s garden. Cullen lifted his head slowly, squinting in the dim room. The weather had at last begun to fine, heading into spring, but in the mountains at this time of year that simply meant it was sunny and freezing – and this early in the morning, it was only the latter.

A warm arm eased around his stomach, and a voice thick with sleep came from the mound of covers beside him: “It’s too early to be awake.”

He chuckled as he dropped obediently back onto the pillow. Fenris shuffled closer against his back. Cullen had not been with a elven man before, and he was fairly certain he would have found the feel of Fenris’ bare skin addictive even without the lyrium contained in it; the elf’s body was completely smooth, firm planes of muscle beneath skin like silk. Cullen had no more hair than average – his arms and legs had a fair amount, and he had a light covering of chest hair with a narrow trail down past his navel – but beside Fenris he felt like he was part-bear.

In the weeks since that first day in Cullen’s office, they still hadn’t quite worked out why Fenris’ markings didn’t react to Cullen the same way as they did to others. He guessed it was tied into the lyrium itself somehow; some inverse of the way Fenris’ touch soothed the residual ache of Cullen's withdrawal. Whatever the case, Fenris revelled in the new enjoyment of touch, in the simple pleasure of contact with another warm body. Cullen, for his part, was more than happy to oblige him.

Fenris had been allocated a sizeable room overlooking the garden, but he hadn’t slept there since he and Cullen began this… whatever it was. They hadn’t discussed any intentions, as such, and so far Cullen didn’t really feel the need to formalise any of this. It was – really nice, having someone. And physically, things were… he could feel the flush creeping up his face just at the thought of it, especially with Fenris’ firm, muscular body curved close against his. “You’re cold,” the elf observed, rubbing his nose against the back of Cullen’s neck.

“Well somebody insists on stealing most of the covers.”

“A baseless accusation,” Fenris said, breathing a low laugh as his hand slid over Cullen’s chest and back to his stomach.

Cullen’s breath stuttered slightly at the contact, and he felt arousal begin to seethe low in his groin. “I thought you wanted to sleep,” he murmured, catching Fenris’ hand with his own.

He felt Fenris’ lips touch his shoulder, once, then again a little lower. Cullen grinned, and rolled over to face the elf: Fenris fanned out the blankets to more fully cover them both, then eased himself beneath Cullen’s arm. When he looked up, it was with a smirk. “My apologies for keeping you up…”

Cullen scoffed and grabbed him before kissing him thoroughly… morning breath or no, the elf was asking for it.

It seemed he was. When Cullen finally moved back, Fenris made a sound of protest and leaned forward to recapture his lips – and Cullen went on the attack again, rolling Fenris over onto his back as he shifted over him. Cullen kissed down the branching lines of lyrium on Fenris’ neck, hitching his hip so that he could reach down between them. Fenris’ cock was already hard, and as Cullen took hold of it the elf rolled his hips up into the contact. Cullen began to move his hand, his tongue retracing the path on Fenris’ neck that his lips had taken; the elf arched his neck back, groaning through his teeth, and Cullen’s own cock twitched at the sound. Watching Fenris come slowly undone, lips parted, eyes half-closed, was almost better than being on the receiving end.

Then Fenris’ deft fingers tugged open the laces of Cullen’s loose wool trousers, wrapping around his cock without preamble, and Cullen reconsidered that thought. He dropped his head against Fenris’ chest, lifting up onto his knees to give the elf better access. Fenris stroked him firmly, sliding the skin on Cullen's shaft down over the head and up again, and it took all Cullen’s concentration to maintain his own hand’s rhythm. "Ah... Maker." Fenris swiped his thumb through the bead of precum at Cullen’s tip, rubbing it across the sensitive tip, and Cullen just about came right then—

There was a hard rap at the door in the office downstairs. “Commander?”

Cullen froze, breathing hard, arousal and irritation warring in him. He lifted his head and cleared his throat. “What is it?” he yelled back.

“Apologies for waking you, Commander. But the Inquisitor requests your presence in the war room, as soon as you can.”

Cullen groaned softly, then louder as Fenris’ hand slid over his achingly hard cock again. The elf grinned wolfishly up at him and lifted up from the bed to kiss the side of Cullen’s face. “I–” Cullen broke off, dragging on a breath as Fenris’ tongue lapped over his earlobe. “Let him know I’ll be there presently,” he called, managing to sound only marginally strangled.

“Very good, Commander!”

“So, I suppose we must finish up sooner rather than later,” Fenris murmured into his ear, his teeth scraping lightly against the lobe before he trailed his tongue over the spot once more. At the same time, he began to work Cullen’s cock in earnest; Cullen panted, paralysed by the pleasure that shot through him with each motion. He lifted his head, neck muscles tight, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth open. Within seconds, he came with a jerk, hunching into the sensation as his come spattered Fenris’ hard stomach. The elf groaned in sympathetic pleasure, arching his head back; he shortened his strokes, slowing and finally stopping when Cullen was completely spent.

Cullen was deafened for a moment in the aftermath, propped with his head hanging as he caught his breath.

“They will be waiting for you,” Fenris said softly as he tried to sit up, but Cullen reached out to push him flat once more. Cullen slid down the bed, dragging the covers off Fenris in the process. The elf started to protest: “It’s freez—nn,” he clamped his teeth shut to stifle his moan when Cullen opened his mouth over Fenris’ cock and swallowed him to the hilt.

Cullen sucked hard, feeling the firm head slide against the back of his palate. He pulled back, humming his enjoyment and chuckling when Fenris gasped at the vibration. His tongue lapped firmly at the underside before he slid back down again, setting a fast pace and taking Fenris deep.

Fenris watched, eyes glazed, his breathing stilted. The sight of him, dishevelled from sex, Cullen's seed still daubed across his belly, was enough to bring another pang of interest through the base of Cullen’s gut, and he redoubled his efforts.

The muscles in Fenris’ legs tensed, his hands clenching tightly in Cullen’s hair, and Cullen knew he was right at the edge. He groaned encouragement around Fenris’ cock, sucking harder: Fenris hips lifted off the mattress, pressing himself even deeper into Cullen’s throat, and he finally came with a shuddering gasp. Cullen swallowed readily, holding where he was until Fenris relaxed down against the bed once more. He finally pulled away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and shifted back up the bed over Fenris; even in his satiated state, the elf craned up to kiss him.

The temptation to curl up and go back to sleep was strong, but Cullen pushed the covers aside and hauled himself out of bed. The chill air of the room brought goosebumps up over his skin hard enough to ache, and his teeth were instantly chattering. He staggered over to the wash basin still left out from last night; the water was icy cold, but he still dampened the washcloth and wiped himself clean with a grimace. He tossed the cloth to Fenris, who managed to catch it despite his redolent pose. He flinched when it touched his stomach: “Fasta vass!” He cleaned himself up quickly, then threw the cloth to one side and heaved the blankets back up over himself in obvious relief. Burrowing lower into the bed, he chuckled suddenly. “Maybe Anders was right about templars, after all.”

Cullen half-turned, raising one eyebrow in question as he shrugged into a fresh undershirt. “I can’t imagine he had anything good to say.”

“He said you all had dirty minds.” Fenris shrugged, rolling onto his back with a satisfied smile. His eyes drifted closed again, his voice dropping to a mumble: “Not that I’m complaining.”

Cullen was still yawning when he pushed open the smaller door set into the grand wooden edifice of the war room’s entrance. Revem was already there, waiting by the Ferelden end of the table – Josephine and Cassandra stood across from him, and all three turned up from the map to look at him. He half-expected some teasing remark about why he was tired – which he would, of course, thoroughly deserve – but each face was grave. Instantly, he felt self-conscious, guilty for the extra few moments with Fenris he had stolen: “I apologise, Inquisitor. I didn’t realise I was holding up proceedings…”

Revem shook his head, managing a wan smile. “You’re not, Cullen – the news is just… concerning.”

Cullen was fully awake at once, straightening as he closed the door behind him. “What is it?”

Revem looked down at the map in front of them, dozens of cast metal pins and markers mapping out the whole progress of the Inquisition so far. He pointed to the southern Hinterlands, shoving the loose side of his red hair back from his face. “We had a messenger arrive from Forest Camp late last night.” He shook his head. “They were attacked – by demons.”

“Demons? Maker. In the Hinterlands?” Cullen looked down to where Revem pointed. “How did the camp fare?”

Grim-faced, Revem picked up the place marker for the encampment, enclosing it in his fist. “Only two scouts got out.” He folded his arms across his chest. “One came here – the other was wounded, but he went to warn the Crossroads.”

“The Crossroads? The demons are on the move?” Cullen asked, alarmed. Even when the countryside had been plagued with them, the demons tended to stay close to the rifts that had spawned them.

“We don’t know for sure. The scouts didn’t hang around to find out.” Revem tapped his finger against the map. “Better they are warned than not, just in case.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Cassandra protested, crossing her arms across his breastplate as she scowled down at the table. “There have been no sign of demons in the Hinterlands since before the fall of Haven.”

Revem drew his hand back, leaning against the table’s edge with a sigh. “Apparently that has changed.”

Cullen looked at the place where Forest Camp’s marker had sat, considering. “I don’t see much for it. Whatever is happening, we need to get down there and contain the situation.” He stood back, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword. He hadn’t worn it habitually for some time, but for an urgent war table meeting it seemed appropriate – now, even more so. “The worst of the snows are over. We could be at the Crossroads before the week is out.”

Josephine took a few short steps around the war table, considering the map before them as she tapped her quill on her writing board. “We could send word to Bann Gerrard at Calon,” she offered, flipping through a few sheets of parchment. “I believe the Forest Camp was technically within his lands. I know he only recently secured the position, but he must have…”

“I agree with Cullen,” Cassandra interrupted. “A demon presence in the heart of Ferelden must be eradicated as swiftly as possible. Sending a delegation to a Bann we have little knowledge of in the hopes that he may assist may only cause unnecessary delay.” She looked sharply at the Inquisitor.

“I agree,” Revem said, his youthful face resigned. “I will deal with this personally.” He looked down at the mark on his hand; the anchor had been dormant long enough that its glow had dimmed, a kernel of green light barely visible through the skin of his palm. “If demons are involved, we can’t discount the chance it’s another rift.”

“It could just as easily be blood magic,” Cullen suggested. “I advise bringing templars.”

Revem rubbed at his smooth jaw. “Perhaps you are right – though the group can’t be too large. We’ll need to move fast.”

Cullen inclined his head. “Knight-Captain Briony remains at Skyhold – the weather was too far gone by the time Corypheus fell for her to journey back to Kirkwall. Between her and Cassandra, we should be enough to counter any blood mage.”

Josephine bridled. “But – who will command Skyhold in your absence?” she fretted, gesturing outside the door with her hands. “For both Cullen and Cassandra to accompany you, Inquisitor… what if there are attacks elsewhere before you return? Or at Skyhold itself?”

Revem was nonplussed. “You will have Bull and the Chargers. He is unorthodox, maybe, but he knows battle strategy like the back of his hand. And the Inquisition soldiers will still have their lieutenants.”

Josephine opened her mouth, looking mutinous for a moment, then closed it again as she reconsidered. When she did speak, she inclined her head gracefully: “I understand, Inquisitor.”

Revem stepped back from the war table. “I know it’s sudden, Josephine, but we have to get the best we have down there as soon as possible.” He moved towards the door, determination in the set of his face. “We reconvene in one hour at the main gate.”

Chapter Text

Fenris found Cullen in the Quartermaster’s office, supervising as one of the tranquil provisioners counted out vials of lyrium into a small case. Cullen glanced over his shoulder when the door opened, and his tense expression eased – slightly – when he saw who it was.

Fenris moved over to stand beside him, frowning at the blue glow emanating from the lead-lined chest. “Must you handle this personally?” he murmured. Cullen had seemed better, physically, since they had become involved, but he still wasn’t sure the man should be dealing directly with lyrium.

“Only this part of it,” Cullen said, his eyes fixed on the tranquil recounting the vials. “Knight-Captain Briony is a senior templar, and she can handle her own philters in the field. Ordinarily she could request it herself as well, but there are extra precautions in place right now.”

The quartermaster hurried across with a requisition for Cullen to sign. He was slight of build, with blond hair in a fussy side-parted style, and appeared far too young to be responsible for the supplying of an organisation as large as the Inquisition. “Again, my most sincere apologies for that situation, Commander,” the man began worriedly. He gnawed on his bottom lip for a moment, before he spoke again: “I thought we’d accounted adequately for the reduction in staff over winter…”

“You weren’t to know, Morris – and you realised what was missing quickly enough for us to get it back.” Cullen gave a half shrug as he signed the carefully scribed form. “Ultimately, there was no harm done.”

“And it will not happen again,” Morris said fervently. “I will make very sure of that, don’t you worry Commander.” The young man nodded his blond head as he took the requisition back to his desk. Unlike Cullen’s, it was kept in meticulous order, forms and papers stacked neatly or tucked into labelled leather cases.

Cullen glanced at Fenris. “You have heard, then?”

Fenris snorted. “I have more than heard. The Inquisitor has asked me to accompany the group.” Cullen looked like he’d just been presented with a gift, eyebrows lifting in pleased surprise, and Fenris snorted a laugh. “I have as much experience dealing with blood mages as any templar. And no shortage of battles fought against demons, also.” Kirkwall had been rife with both – of course, Cullen knew this as well as anyone. Hawke had always said… a pang clenched Fenris’ heart, and he put the thought deliberately from his mind. Part of him was still unconvinced that any of this was fair to Hawke’s memory – or to Cullen himself.

“You will be a great asset,” Cullen said with a smile. He took Fenris’ hand between both of his, heedless of the startled look Ser Morris gave them from where he stood shuffling papers at his desk. “It will be a relief to have you there,” he said, more softly.

Fenris’ face felt warmer, and he dropped it against Cullen’s broad shoulder. He didn’t know if he was ready to do this again – if he would ever be. He was damaged, by a life lived as slave and quarry, and by losing the one person who had finally taught him how to be something other than that. But when he was with Cullen, he wanted to be ready. He straightened, but didn’t move away – let the quartermaster stare if he so wished.

Finally the tranquil was finished with her work, and she handed the closed case to Cullen. He hesitated – only for half a breath, but long enough for Fenris to notice – then he took the case with a nod. “Thank you.”

Fenris didn’t know how to feel about tranquil. They were supposed to have been weak and dangerous mages, but Kirkwall showed – as much as he wanted to disbelieve Anders’ furious accusations about it – that the rite was not always used as intended. And Fenris had been at the Chantry the day of their ill-fated attempt to rescue Anders’ friend. The grey-haired mage, brand still raw on his forehead, had pleaded with Anders to kill him. Fenris had known a few slaves in Tevinter so broken in spirit that they acted much like the tranquil did; their perfect obedience not the product of some magical rite, but of a fear and hopelessness so absolute it had eroded everything they were.

Fenris tore his eyes from the tranquil and the sunburst scar on her forehead, and followed Cullen outside once more.

There was a bustle of activity by the gate as a small crowd of workers and soldiers checked the horses’ tack and loaded them with packs and saddlebags. Other residents of Skyhold hovered around the fringes of the scene, watching the proceedings. Revem stood a short distance apart, fully transformed: the battered leather armor he had worn on his last sojourn from the keep was nowhere to be seen, and instead he wore a coat of light-coloured scales and a burnished breastplate. His savage-looking gauntlets and greaves were fashioned from an odd, bronze-gold metal that gleamed with a green sheen in the light. On his back the Inquisitor carried a spined longbow of the same material and a quiver of arrows laced with enchantments. It had been hard to see in the friendly, comfortably dressed elf Fenris had first encountered here the triumphant symbol that all the other residents of Skyhold seemed to; now, Revem looked every inch the saviour of all Thedas that he was.

It made Fenris think of Hawke, again: Hawke at the end, bedecked in the ornate black and red armour, as decorative as it was effective, that left no doubt in any who saw him that this was the Champion they had heard of. Fenris’ throat felt tight, and he had to swallow a few times to clear it.

Standing with the Inquisitor were Dorian, Cassandra and a tall woman with blonde hair worn in a long braid; her armour was similar to the high-collared studded leather jerkin worn by some templars, but over her breastbone the sword and eye emblem of the inquisition was etched in white. She carried a pair of elegant shortswords slotted into a light harness on her back. As Fenris approached he noticed, to his displeasure, that Cole crouched on the patchy snow behind the others. He was patting a young tabby cat that rubbed happily against his shins.

The blonde gave a crisp salute as they approached. “Commander.” She was a beautiful woman with striking sky-blue eyes and incredibly long lashes, but there was a certain distracted intensity to her gaze which Fenris recognised from the templars he had known in Kirkwall. Cullen himself had once been like that, often seeming to look through Hawke rather than at him.

Now, Cullen smiled readily. “At ease, Knight-Captain. You may know Fenris – or at least his reputation.”

The woman turned to Fenris, respect in her eyes. “Knight-Captain Briony, ser. I don’t think we met in Kirkwall, not officially… but I saw you in the fight at the Gallows. Anyone who wields a sword like that I am more than pleased to have with us.”

Fenris inclined his head gravely. “A pleasure.”

The Inquisitor’s brunette advisor, clad in so much woven gold she was almost blinding in the early spring sunshine, came down the steps. Fenris didn’t know much about her beyond her name – Josephine – and that she was some Antivan noblewoman-turned-diplomat. He had never met her face-to-face, largely by design: he would have found it impossible to hide his disdain.

The Iron Bull sauntered along just behind the advisor, towering over her; when he saw Fenris looking at him he gave that purposeful blink which was his one-eyed version of a wink.

Revem and Cassandra moved across to speak with Josephine and Bull, and Cullen followed them with a murmured “Excuse me.”

With Revem so engaged, Dorian came to stand with Fenris and Briony. He cocked his head at Fenris, his face amused. “Fighting side by side, then. Who would ever have imagined it – I daresay there was a good chance I’d end up at the end of your sword before that first week was out.”

Fenris rolled his eyes. “I haven’t made a firm decision either way yet.”

Dorian flapped one hand at him. “Oh, stop flirting. I know I’m irresistible, but you’ll make Cullen terribly jealous.”

Fenris chose to ignore that remark, but Briony turned to Dorian with a rather bemused smile. “Oh? Do tell.” She glanced across to where Cullen stood, listening to Josephine with a considering expression on his face. “I always thought our Commander was immune to temptations of the flesh – or that he took a vow of chastity when no-one was looking.”

Dorian gave a full-throated laugh. “Where have you been all this time, Knight-Captain?” he asked lightly. “Surely we should have been acquainted before this.”

She smiled tightly. “Yes, a Tevinter mage and a templar – I can’t think why no-one thought to introduce us.”

“Oh I don’t know,” Varric interrupted, stepping into their circle. “Look at Sparkler and Curly. If anyone ever doubted the Maker has one weird sense of humour, there’s your proof.”

“Varric, you’re coming?” Briony asked, smiling broadly – and of course she knew Varric. It would be almost impossible to have lived in Kirkwall for any extended period of time and not know Varric.

“Yep – better to be at a distance when it’s demons, unless you’re behind an awful lot of heavy plate and a shield.” Varric paused, eyeing her and then Fenris in turn. “Present company excepted, of course.”

She shrugged. “I’ll manage.”

“I have no doubt of that.” Varric shook his head, then grinned. “How many offers of marriage did you get after that duel you fought in Orlais, again?”

Cole wandered across, the kitten trailing after him and mewing plaintively. Cole pushed his hat back from his pale blue eyes as he looked at each of them. “Good luck,” he said solemnly. The cat trotted over to Varric, pawing at his leg. Cole smiled. “She says you feed her good things.”

“Yeah, well. You keep an eye on her while I’m gone, kid,” Varric said, giving the cat’s ears a fond scratch. “When I come back, she can have my leftovers again.”

“She’ll remember,” Cole remarked, before wandering away again.

Fenris scowled after him, trying to shrug out the tension in his shoulders – he would never be easy around Cole. Anders had proved all too well that there was no trusting a creature of the Fade, no matter how benevolent it might appear; Anders thought that he had twisted Justice into something he wasn’t, something sinister, but it seemed clear enough that in fact the reverse was true. Fenris could too-well picture Cole’s pallid, corpse-like face dividing in two to reveal the gaping maw of a terror demon.

“All right,” Revem called suddenly, shaking Fenris out of his unsettling thoughts. The Inquisitor moved purposefully towards the horses and the throng of attendants. “Let’s move out.”

On the road, Revem drifted naturally to the front of the group, with Dorian riding at his side. Fenris wasn’t sure if he was more amused or dismayed to see that Revem rode a white stag, of all the ridiculous Dalish clichés, bareback and with only two cords looped around the stag’s broad antlers to serve as a bridle. Cullen’s imposing grey warhorse fell into step with the other long-legged chargers ridden by Cassandra and Briony. The three rode mostly in comfortable silence as they watched the snow-covered mountains around them for signs of an ambush. They were followed by the two grooms, on heavily-laden mounts that looked at least half cart-horse and with a pack horse tied alongside them – leaving Fenris and Varric to ride together at the back.

The steady best of their mounts' hooves crunched through the compacted, slushy snow that still covered most of the road this high in the mountains. Varric rode what could be charitably called a small horse, but was more realistically a large pony, a sturdy black and white pinto with a long shaggy mane and tail. Small though it may be, the beast had no trouble at all keeping step with Fenris’ taller bay gelding. Fenris had not rode often, and was uncomfortable in the saddle – and, if he was honest, uncomfortable with the company too.

He had spent little time with Varric recently. That had been no accident; Fenris didn’t want Varric to have an opportunity to comment on his taking up with Cullen. The dwarf had been Hawke’s best friend, and as easygoing as he was Fenris couldn’t expect him to approve. And Fenris already heaped enough guilt on himself, without giving anyone else an opening.

“I see you’re still living up to that nickname, elf,” Varric remarked, shifting in the saddle as the pause stretched a beat too long.

Fenris realised he had been glowering off into the distance as he thought, and consciously relaxed his features. “I’m not brooding,” he lied.

“You keep telling yourself that.” Varric raised his eyebrows above a half-smile. “I thought you’d be feeling a bit… better, all things considered.”

Fenris frowned again, flexing his gauntleted hand on the reins. It was still impossible to tell Varric’s opinion on the matter, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

“Fenris,” Varric said firmly, and hearing his actual name instead of one of Varric’s assortment of nicknames surprised him enough to glance across. Varric’s expression was serious, but not severe. “Fenris, listen. Hawke – he never expected things with the red lyrium to get so complicated so quickly, and he never intended to just vanish like that – he hated doing that to you.” He sighed, shifting his grip on the reigns so that he could scrape one hand back through his hair. “If there’s an afterlife and Hawke was looking down on us, I bet you anything he’d have hated seeing you left alone again. And he’d be happy that’s changed.” He breathed out a laugh, more through his nose than his mouth. “I bet he’d approve of your taste, too.”

For a moment there was only the rhythmic clink of tack and crunch of horses’ hooves, over the murmur of their companions and the distant whistling of the wind. “Thank you,” Fenris said at last. “I still find myself… I would not undo my choice. But I find myself concerned at times, how it must seem. And whether it is fair, either to Hawke, or to Cullen.”

Varric leaned back in the saddle somewhat, grimacing as he straightened his legs. “Honestly, Broody, there's just no sure bet when it comes to this stuff.” He shrugged. “The great love of my life is a woman it was – absolutely, unequivocably a mistake to involve myself with at all. Still, wouldn’t change a thing.”

And with that, the tension was broken. Varric launched into one of his endless stories, Fenris listened in amiable silence, and they carried on towards whatever awaited them in the Hinterlands.

Chapter Text

The group reached Redcliffe four days later, riding into the steeply-terraced town amidst the stark light and shade of long late-afternoon shadows. Fear hung in the air, though they were still nearly a half-day’s ride from where demons had first been sighted: the streets were near-empty, and the few residents in view stared at Revem in open awe. Several called out praise for the Inquisition and the ‘Herald of Andraste’, another title Revem had apparently acquired during the war against Corypheus.

As their convoy of riders made their way into the town’s centre, two Inquisition soldiers and a slight, green-hooded scout approached. Revem pulled his horse to a halt, nodding to the two soldiers as they saluted. The small scout between them dropped her hood; she was a light-skinned elf with a face full of freckles, her hair even redder than the inquisitor’s and braided back tightly into a bun behind her head. “Charter!” the Inquisitor exclaimed, sliding to the ground beside his mount. “Well, you are a welcome sight. I could use some reliable intelligence about what’s going on here.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” Charter said, smiling slightly as she bowed from the waist. “We can go to the Gull and Lantern. We have it to ourselves for the night; too cold for many travellers, and what few there were have made tracks since the news came from Forest Camp.”

There were no shortage of hands to help as the Inquisitor’s party settled into the town’s tavern; word of his arrival had clearly spread, and the people of Redcliffe were only too eager to express their relief however they could. Their two grooms were inundated with offers of assistance as they took charge of the group’s mounts. Inside the tavern, a trail of servants raced back and forth readying the rooms and the kitchen was alive with chatter and clattering pots as the meal was prepared. When Revem and his contingent trailed after Charter into the taproom, they found two jugs of ale and an array of tankards already set out on the tables.

“Rather a nice little perk of saving Thedas, isn’t it?” Dorian said as he slid onto a seat at one of the tables and helped himself to some ale. “The first time I visited the Hinterlands, I ended up camping in the hills. Something of a culture shock.”

“I’m sure,” Fenris said dryly.

Dorian shrugged, tilting his head to deliver a winning, white-toothed smile. “Quite a refreshing lack of blood magic, though. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Fenris ignored him, to avoid pointing out the obvious: that where there were mages, there would always be blood magic. Instead, he looked suspiciously at the jug. Wisps of steam rose from it, and Fenris wasn’t at all convinced about the idea of warm ale.

Dorian took a long draught from his tankard, then wiped foam delicately from his moustache with a handkerchief. “Marvellous stuff, Ferelden ale,” he remarked. “Though I admit I looked at it the same way until I finally got desperate enough to try some.”

Varric took the seat beside Dorian with a grateful sigh. “Trust me, elf – you’ve drunk at the Hanged Man. You can drink anything in Thedas now without fear.”

Briony grinned as she joined them, sitting next to Fenris. “He’s not wrong.” She poured two tankards and slid one over to him before he could decline.

On the table beside them, Revem sat with Cassandra, Cullen and the elven newcomer. “I couldn’t get as close as I’d have liked, Inquisitor,” Charter admitted. “But the demons seem to be patrolling the south-west, and not beyond. Upper Lake Camp and Farm Camp haven’t seen any yet.”

“Do we have an estimate of numbers?” Cullen asked.

“It’s hard to be sure – I saw several shades, and at least one rage demon… could see the orange glow through the trees.” Charter shuddered a little. “And there’s… something, over in Old Simeon’s Cave. I couldn’t get near to it, but if you’re in the area at night you can see light.” She looked at the Inquisitor with a resigned expression. “Green light.”

Revem folded his hands, resting his chin on top of them. “It must be a rift. Especially if the demons aren’t moving anywhere. If it were blood mages, surely they would have put the things to work by now.”

“There was a rift there, before,” Cassandra pointed out. “But it was sealed over a year ago – why has this happened now?”

“Only one way to find out.” Revem climbed to his feet and glancing around at the room. Once he was sure he had the attention of both tables, he raised his voice slightly: “Everyone, take the chance to relax and get some rest in a proper bed. We head out at first light.”

The ale was actually significantly better than the Hanged Man’s, laden with spices and a hint of honey. By the bottom of his first tankard, Fenris could even sort of appreciate the temperature of it; it did make some sense that people from a country as cold and miserable as Ferelden might choose a warm drink. As Fenris reached for the half-full pitcher, Dorian smirked knowingly at him from over the rim of his own tankard.

The meal was also a pleasant surprise: a hearty stew of druffalo meat and vegetables served with crusty bread still warm from the oven. As they ate, the tavern keeper – a tall man with a clean white apron tied over his broad gut – approached Revem with a worried expression on his face. “Your Worship,” he said, bobbing his head deferentially. “I’ve a small concern you may be able to help me with…”

As it turned out, he had only two rooms upstairs ‘fit for such lofty company’, with the rest of his lodgings in a shared dormitory at the rear of the building – and he wasn’t sure who took precedence between Cullen and Cassandra. To complicate matters, the two immediately began to insist that the other take the room.

After several minutes of this Cassandra glanced meaningfully at Fenris. “I have far less reason to need a private room,” she said firmly. “I insist, Cullen.”

Varric snorted, covering the sound with a cough, and Cassandra scowled at the dwarf.

Cullen, red-cheeked, glanced apologetically at Fenris, seeming more than ready to argue the point again. But when he looked back at Cassandra’s determined expression, he sighed and gave a resigned shrug. “Very well, though…”

“If you breathe a word about my being a lady, Cullen,” Cassandra said quickly, lifting her chin, “we can go outside right now and decide it. The loser shall take the room – I feel confident in my chances.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything of the sort.” Cullen held up his hands in supplication, a slight smile tugging at his scarred lip. “I know when I am beaten.” He met Fenris’ eyes, and this time the gaze lingered. Fenris raised one eyebrow, though he didn’t look away.

“Maker have mercy,” Cassandra muttered, her own cheeks rosy now. “See how many favours I try to do you, in future.”

Later that night, with Cullen curled beside him in the warm cocoon of the bed’s thick blankets and coverlet, Fenris silently thanked Cassandra’s romantic notions. Despite what the others may have expected, they had both been tired enough after four nights of bedrolls and dawn wakings that there had been little on their minds but sleep when they finally made it to bed.

A panel of bright moonlight shone into the room, lending the scene an ethereal silver-grey light; But Fenris lay half-awake, eyes cracked open. He often had trouble staying asleep on the road, no matter how comfortable the accommodation. It was too reminiscent of life on the run, where a sound night’s rest could mean losing his freedom. Back then, he had gone without sleep as long as possible, dozed sitting up with one hand on his weapon, been woken by the shout of pain when a hunter realised too late the door of his inn room was trapped. He wasn’t sure any number of uneventful journeys would ever be enough to change habits so ingrained.

He shifted to look at Cullen, who seemed fast asleep: his side rose and fell steadily with his breath, one hand tucked loosely into his chest. Letting his breath fall into the same rhythm, lying warm and comfortable, Fenris’ eyes finally fell closed as sleep drew him in. Then there was a light thump from next door – the Inquisitor’s room – and they snapped open again in an instant. He listened without moving, not wanting to wake Cullen unless there was truly something amiss. Someone spoke softly, barely the faintest murmur audible through the wall; then there came a muffled, high-pitched moan – almost a whine – and a low laugh. Decidedly not an assassin or thief. The laugh definitely came from Dorian, which meant the other… Revem moaned again, and there was the thud on the wall once more, as much vibration as sound.

Fenris shifted slightly, no longer so comfortable through no deficiency of the bed. There was little doubt what the others were doing. Fenris tried very hard not to picture it – but the faint little gasps and grunts and the rhythmic thud of their bed made it almost impossible. Each sound seemed to jolt straight down into Fenris’ groin, and – to his chagrin – he was soon completely hard.

Cullen suddenly sighed, rolling onto his back.

Fenris waited a moment, before he whispered, almost voiceless, “are you asleep?”

“With those two at it, of course not,” Cullen muttered without opening his eyes, though his gravelly voice confirmed he had been. At that moment, there came a strangled shout and a sustained throaty cry, and then the thumping abruptly stopped. Fenris realised he had a white-knuckle grip on the blanket, tight enough that his fingers ached when he relaxed them. He rolled over, self-conscious, facing away from Cullen and pulling the covers up over his face as he willed himself to calm down. But then he felt Cullen shift over, too, and a calloused hand slid over his hip and down to palm his erection through his leggings. “Did you get some ideas?” Cullen whispered, and Fenris barely bit down in time to stop a groan of his own escaping.

“Perhaps,” Fenris managed, groping down along Cullen’s stomach and realised that the other man was equally hard. “Yes,” he amended, his teeth grazing his lip. Fenris sat up, letting the covers drop away as he stood. He grabbed his hair tie from the floor by the bed, turning back to face Cullen as he hastily scraped his hair back. Cullen lifted himself onto one elbow, watching with interest as Fenris slipped out of his leggings and grabbed the pot of mineral oil he had been using to clean his sword earlier. “Maker’s breath, Fenris, you are flawless.”

Cullen dropped back against the pillows as Fenris, tattoos gleaming across his naked body in the moonlight, climbed back up onto the bed and straddled his thighs. The room wasn’t as cold as Skyhold had been, not with the remnants of a fire still smouldering in the hearth, but the air was still chill enough to bring goosebumps up across Fenris’ skin; Cullen reached out to gently rub his thumb over the tiny point of Fenris’ dark nipple, encircled by dots of inlaid lyrium. Fenris arched back, baring his teeth. He undid the lacing on Cullen’s trousers while the human’s hands continued to play over his bare chest and abdomen; Cullen’s hands stuttered in their movement, his breath coming out as a sigh, when Fenris finally took hold of his cock.

Cullen was slightly longer and thicker than Fenris – as might be expected from a human – and intact: slaves in Tevinter were routinely circumcised in the belief that it was cleaner. The flesh was hot and hard beneath Fenris’ hand, and he stroked it lazily for a moment before he leaned back and uncorked the bottle of oil. He tipped some into his palm, then stoppered the bottle once again and dropped it onto the covers behind him.

When he reached down to slick the oil over Cullen’s length, Cullen’s lips fell open around a silent moan, brow furrowing. Then Fenris shifted his hips forward until he could wrap his hand around both of them, cocks sliding together in his grip. He continued the unhurried stroking he had begun. Cullen rolled his pelvis up against it, thrusting into Fenris’ grip, the movement drawing a moan from both of them. Fenris dropped one hand to the mattress, leaning forward to take his weight off Cullen so the man could move. Cullen gripped the elf’s thighs, bending his knees so he could brace his feet on the bed as he thrust back and forth slowly in the circle of Fenris’ grip. Fenris stroked them both in time. It was slippery and hot, Cullen’s heavy cock slick against his, and there was no way he was going to last long: Fenris let air filter in through clenched teeth, trying to keep from making too much noise. Beneath him Cullen’s head shifted on the pillow, the muscles in his neck corded as pleasure began to overtake him.

Before long, Fenris’ hand was moving frantically, Cullen stretched out and open-mouthed beneath him as they both rode the edge. Then Cullen groaned, clamping his lips together to muffle it, before he finally came. Watching Cullen’s eyes fall closed, hearing that sound, Fenris couldn’t have held off any longer if he wanted to – his hand stuttered to short, unsteady strokes as he followed Cullen over the edge, biting his own lip hard enough to pierce the skin.

Afterwards, Fenris sat back onto Cullen’s thighs, working to bring his breathing back under control. He smirked down at Cullen, who lay in a light sheen of sweat, painted from groin to neck with their combined efforts. Cullen grimaced down at himself, then looked up to meet Fenris’ gaze. “Well worth it,” he murmured. “But if there’s a cloth somewhere it would be appreciated…”

Fenris stood, legs shaky, and looked around the room. Someone had left a tray with water and glasses on the chest of drawers, and beside it sat a folded teatowel – he dampened the towel and wiped himself off hastily, then returned to clean Cullen. After he dropped the soiled cloth into the fireplace, he turned back to the bed to find Cullen watching him with a fond smile on his lips. “Come back to bed,” he said. “If I spend any longer looking at you, we’ll have to do that again… and surely we’ll need at least some sleep for tomorrow.”

Fenris snorted as he returned and sat down, leaning over as though to kiss the handsome blond. But right as the Commander leaned up, Fenris pulled back a few inches out of reach. Cullen let out a panted breath, half-sigh, half-laugh, and Fenris dropped down once more to claim his mouth in a hard kiss. When they broke apart, Cullen frowned lightly and licked his lower lip. “Blood?”

“I was not so keen on providing an entertainment as our neighbours apparently were,” Fenris mumbled, getting wearily under the covers. Cullen wrapped an arm around him, his chest warm against the cool skin of Fenris’ back. Fenris’ eyes drifted closed, easily this time.

“I don’t know,” Cullen said innocently. “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind at all.”

Fenris was already asleep.

Chapter Text

The desire demon stood still on the other side of the barrier, watching him curiously as he muttered the Canticle of Benedictions. With the unending patience of an immortal, she was often content just to wait and observe, secure in her conviction that eventually she would win. She cocked her hip, the chains draped across her chest and throat jingling with the movement, as a faint smile touched her purple-grey lips. “Shall I show you what this world will give you?” she asked, at last.

Cullen was feverish; his wound was turning septic. Sweat stood in beads on his brow as he knelt steadfast, back straight, hands raised in prayer. “Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker’s will is written.” He grit out the words, his voice hoarse from hours of use, then took a shaky breath ready to begin again.

“There is nothing here for you,” she said, speaking in Surana’s voice once more. He willed himself not to look, but he had so little will left.

He lifted his head.

Surana stared back at him – a ghoul, her face cankered and eaten away by the Blight, only a few clumps of dark hair remaining on her scabbed and blistered scalp. The whites of her eyes were shot through with blackened threads, the green irises dull and ragged-edged. She smiled, showing too many teeth; her withered lips had receded. “This is what the Grey Wardens don’t tell you – this is their fate, if they are not slain before the Blight finishes its work. Perhaps that’s more likely, though.” She coughed suddenly, eyes widening as red-black blood sprayed from her mouth. Rivulets of it rolled down the barrier as Cullen tore his eyes away, hunching over his clasped hands once more. “Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter,” he cried, over the sound of Surana’s death rattle. She fell to the floor in his peripheral vision, coughing through pouring blood as she clutched her stomach. “Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just…”

She sat up, still soaked from her pit-like mouth to the hem of her tattered robes in dark blood. She sighed at him, and at once it was the Neria Surana he remembered who sat there; cream skin and glossy brown hair, pink lips and cheeks, vital and glowing with health, beautiful. “It doesn’t have to happen. Not for you, Cullen.” She reached out to flatten her palm against the barrier, smiling shyly.

Cullen stared at her flawless face, his lips parted. His hand twitched – but he tightened his grasp, squeezing his eyes shut against her image. “Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadows. In their blood the Maker’s will is written.”

She sighed. “You are just no fun. Well, we have time. All the time in the world.”

Cullen awoke with a start, staring blearily around himself; Fenris was shaking his shoulder, whispering his name urgently. The grey light of pre-dawn filtered in through the parted curtains.

“I’m sorry,” Cullen said automatically, voice thick with sleep. “Did I wake you?” He pulled himself up to sitting, scratching at his tousled hair. He felt embarrassed. There had been fewer nightmares since Fenris came to his bed. The nights he had woken in the grip of one, he didn’t think Fenris had realised – the elf had slept on beside him undisturbed.

“You were talking in your sleep.” Fenris frowned a little. “Actually, you were praying.”

“Ah.” Cullen turned away to swing his legs off the side of the bed, grateful for the excuse not to meet Fenris’ eye. “Bad dream. Sorry.”

“Why are you apologising?” Fenris asked. “I already did the same to you, once. Far more dramatically.”

Cullen knew he should probably say something reassuring, at least smile, but he couldn’t find it in himself. The hopelessness of the dream was still with him. Finally he sighed. “It won’t just be once.”

Fenris didn’t respond for a moment: when Cullen glanced back, the elf was watching him pensively. “I know the feeling,” he acknowledged. “It will happen again for me, also. Should I also apologise for what I cannot control?”

That made Cullen turn around fully once more. “No, of course not. You…” Fenris raised an eyebrow, and Cullen dropped his gaze, rubbing the back of his neck as he smiled sheepishly. “All right, very well. I apologise for apologising. It won’t happen again.”

Fenris snorted out a breath, almost a laugh. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Cullen considered that, but shook his head. “Not… not today, at least.” He frowned across at Fenris, fighting the urge suddenly to take the elf’s hand in his. “Do you?”

Fenris pushed his unruly hair back from his face with a grimace. “Not today.” He slid off the bed to standing, stretching his arms over his head. Then he looked back once more. “One day, though. Perhaps one day soon.”

After a moment, Cullen nodded his agreement.

Their group cut west through a winding ravine to reach Farm Camp. A small Inquisition force was stationed there – half a dozen grim-faced men and women who confirmed Charter’s reports that they had not yet seen any demons. Revem’s group left their horses at the camp and headed south on foot.

They travelled through a narrow valley, the slushy path bordered by new spring grass emerging from beneath the last patchy snow. The Hinterlands was picturesque – backed against the Frostbacks, the terrain was all stark rock and majestic trees and fast-flowing rivers. There were even wildflowers, lilac blooms stretching hesitantly towards the sun where it reached the ground between towering evergreens. Fenris supposed if they were going to be hunting demons, there were worse places to do so. They could have been on the Wounded Coast, with the sun beating down on exposed rock, stretches of endless sandy grit and scrubby bushes.

It wasn’t long before they found their first demon. Revem saw it first, his sharp eyes picking out the sole shade weaving back and forth further down the track. He drew his spined bow as he crept soundlessly up a knoll beside the road. With the advantage of height, he dropped to one knee and took careful aim. When he loosed, the arrow pierced straight through the gnarled flesh of the creature’s hooded face; it let out an unearthly screech as it collapsed, dissolving into the soil beneath it.

Revem leapt easily back down to the ground, expression grim. “Be ready for more.” He continued down the valley, bow in hand.

Their encounters with demons became more frequent as they moved south: more roving shades, a pair of wraiths – all easily dispatched from a distance with two archers and a mage. A terror demon came slashing out of the ground in a flare of green light, sending Varric sprawling, but its claws struck harmlessly against one of Dorian’s blue-white barriers. Cassandra battered into the demon at a run, her shield held firm in front of her, and the beast was thrown back to skid across the damp ground. It scrabbled to its feet, gangly limbs splayed like a living scarecrow, tail thrashing, and opened its immense maw to shriek at her – just in time for Varric to put a crossbow bolt into it. Two more followed, thunking into the demon’s wizened chest and sending it staggering backwards, before Cassandra darted forward to ram her sword up through its gut. The creature dissolved just like the others, green shreds like burning paper whispering away on the wind.

“Yeah, wouldn’t have complained to be done with these bastards.” Varric grimaced as he brushed leaves and mud from the back of his duster.

“We’re nearly at the camp,” Cullen remarked, looking ahead towards the ravine wall as he led the way. Following closely behind Cullen, Fenris could smell rot, burnt flesh, a wisp of smoke on the air. Before the camp was even in view, he knew immediately what awaited them there.

Two rage demons, heaving mounds of living flame, surged in patrol amidst the charred tents and blackened corpses. Hints of green light further up the slope were wraiths, flickering in and out of view among the sparse trees and brush. “By Andraste,” Cullen mumbled. “There’s nothing left.”

Without reply, Fenris drew his greatsword. Then he charged.

Two pairs of molten eyes turned to survey him as he sprinted up the slope towards them: both rage demons flowed over the ground, flames leaping from their humped backs. He scythed between them, holding his sword low as it dragged through one. The thing screamed, arching higher and growing red hot. It turned to follow Fenris, huge and hulking, but stopped as a stream of ice scored through its chest. It fell, hunks of smouldering ember dropping away from it until the whole form came apart. Fenris just barely caught the flare of green in his peripheral vision and ducked a streak of magical fire.

Cassandra passed him at a run, shield held up as she bore down on two of the wraiths up the hill. Another wraith released an unearthly hiss as a crossbow bolt punched through it, then disintegrated when the bolt was followed by one of Revem’s arrows. Shades ruptured out of the ground beside the archers, and Fenris distantly heard the clang of metal and Cullen’s grunt of effort as he held them off.

Fenris’ attention was back on the second rage demon, which blazed even brighter as it came at him. Heat rolled off it like a physical barrier, the air shimmering around it – Fenris felt sweat form on his skin as he sidestepped a lunging blow. The creature advanced on him, lashing its searing arms as he scrambled away from each strike.

Briony stepped up behind the demon, her face intent, and raised one of her short swords. Light burst in front of Fenris’ eyes, and he snarled in shock – he tried to keep his sword up in front of him as he reeled back, blinking in the brightness. When the spots cleared in his eyes, the light was gone – and the demon was so much ash. Briony inclined her head, blonde braid swaying behind her. “My apologies, Fenris – I didn’t see how close you were.”

He grunted in response, pivoting to survey the scene around them. He saw the commander thrust his sword through the final shade, straightening as the demon fragmented and disappeared. Behind them, one last wraith still floated beneath the trees, but as Fenris watched Dorian extended a palm and engulfed the creature in flame.

Cullen walked over to the edge of the plateau, squinting off towards something in the distance. “We’re getting close,” he remarked, pointing. Fenris looked in that direction, and even in the daylight he could make out a green glow coming from further west.

Revem nodded. “Old Simeon’s Cave, just as Charter said.”

“Let us waste no time, then,” Cassandra said, already heading down the slope towards the green light.

The terrain wasn’t easy going, hilly and dense with rock formations and trees. As they trailed through a high arched tunnel, another spindly terror demon leapt out of the shadows at Revem. Cullen lurched forward and caught the sharp-taloned slash on the flat of his shield with a resounding clang. Dorian lashed out with a torrent of ice, flash-freezing the beast. When Cullen stepped back, there was frost on his shield, crystals of ice in his hair. He raised an eyebrow at Dorian.

“Fasta vass,” the mage breathed. “Sorry, rather startled me.”

Cullen slammed the demon hard with his shield, and the thing shattered.

The cave they had mentioned was a broad space with steeply curved rock walls, open above to the sky. Wraiths thronged near the entrance, drifting like smoke. In the middle the cave, floating in mid-air amidst exposed roots that jutted down from the trees on the hillside, the rift gleamed; Fenris stared at it, equal parts transfixed and repulsed. This close, it had the hard shine of a beetle’s shell, seeming to both reflect and absorb light. Each time he turned his face away from it, he thought he glimpsed something behind its glossy surface – something dark and looming beneath the veneer of green.

Their band of veteran fighters dispatched the milling wraiths easily, but as they advanced into the cave tendrils of green lashed out from the rift to pool on the ground.

“Dispels!” Revem shouted, already nocking another arrow. Dorian gestured, and two of the near pools burst open and disappeared. Briony rushed into the midst of two more, holding her sword point downward. She closed her eyes, and a wave of gold light rolled out from her in a ring, washing two more of the rift’s pools away – Cassandra did similarly with one of the largest ones, stepping right into the centre of the shifting green before her power banished it.

Two remained, directly below the yawning gap between this world and the Fade. Each pool seethed and stretched upwards, taking on a new shape – two monstrous fear demons, airborne, their claw-like wings spread. The nearest opened its maw to screech at Revem.

The Inquisitor didn’t bat an eyelid – rock steady, he loosed the arrow, drawing another mechanically. The arrow thudded into one of the tentacles protruding from its eyeless face, and Fenris shook his head as he ran at it, drawing his sword – did the Inquisitor ever miss? Just as he lunged for the hovering demon, bringing his sword down in a sweeping arc, it shrieked and flickered out of sight. He cast around for it, only to see it reappear behind Revem – too far away for Fenris to get between them. “Behind you, Inquisitor!” he yelled.

But then Cullen was there, crashing into the demon shield first as the thing keened its fury. Revem pivoted and leapt backwards out of danger, loosing another arrow in mid-air which thudded wetly into the demon’s chest. Fenris launched himself at its back, striking methodically to disable the thing’s jagged wings – soon he was coated in black ichor, his greatsword leaving trails of spatter on the grass.

Cassandra bore down on the second fear demon as it chittered at her, flaring the spines of its wings and hunching its emaciated body. It slashed at her once, twice, and she deflected each of them. A globe of Dorian’s ice smashed into it while a crossbow bolt sprouted from its side, make it lurch off-balance – “I got you, Seeker!” Varric called. She pressed the advantage, her sword slicing deeply into its gut while it scrabbled at her shield. Briony launched herself out of stealth to sink both of her swords into the creature’s flank, braid flying behind her. The demon screamed its anger and flickered out of sight like the other had, the shortswords still sunk into its flesh. “Watch out!” Cassandra called, scanning the cave for sign of it. “One is cloaked!”

 The first fear demon swiped at Cullen with increasing desperation, but he blocked each swing expertly, jaw set. Its head and chest were now riddled with arrows, its back a mess of deep gouges and the flailing stubs of its wings. Each piece Fenris severed dissolved as it fell away. Suddenly the second demon appeared behind Cullen, its clawed arms at full extension – it wrapped around him, sharp-tipped wings curving around itself like a spider’s legs to scrape against the commander’s armour. It dragged him backwards as he fought to brace himself. The other demon shrieked its triumph, lunging forward towards where Cullen was pinned.

Dorian cried out a phrase, and the air around them went strange; gold, blurred like it was viewed through water. The demons seemed suspended in mid-air, until Fenris realised they were still moving – moving so slowly it had been hard to even tell. Gritting his teeth, ignoring the way the lyrium in his skin prickled with wrongness, Fenris leapt into the gravely wounded demon in front of him, jamming his sword through its bony back with all his strength and wrenching it down through its viscera. The demon arched back with agonising slowness, jaw stretching open silently as it screamed its final defiance. Briony and Cassandra converged on the one that held Cullen; Briony grabbed the hilts of her swords, kicking off the creature’s back to free them before she whispered a word and struck again. The demon’s grip released as it cringed away from the blow, just enough for Cullen to free himself even while the demon remained slowed. He dragged himself to his feet and away as Cassandra levelled her sword at the creature’s blind head.

Time sped up once more, just as Cassandra’s eyes fell closed. The demon before her exploded in a burst of gold light. Fenris’ sword fell free as the demon he’d impaled also disintegrated, its screech still echoing in the space. Fenris shook his head, staring around them as the effects of the time spell vanished. He felt slightly queasy, as though he had been spinning in circles.

The Inquisitor raised his hand, the glowing anchor flaring too bright to look at as a crackling beam flickered into being between it and the rift. A charge seemed to build in the air, making the hair on Fenris’ neck stand up, before there was a crack and a pulse of light and the rift collapsed in on itself and disappeared.

Cullen had dropped to the ground towards one of the cave walls, and Fenris ran to him. Up close, he could see the blood staining the padding below his armour, dripping onto the grass; one of the demon’s spines had struck home below the edge of his breastplate, goring deep into the Commander’s side. The pouch of potions hooked in Cullen’s belt was smashed, green-blue liquid welling through the fabric, and Fenris fumbled for one of his own. He tugged the wax stopper out and held the vial to Cullen’s lips.

Dorian crouched beside him, frowning worriedly as Cullen choked down the potion. “Well, that looks nasty. You’re lucky Fenris is better at protecting his potions.”

“I don’t feel very lucky right now.” Cullen tried to laugh and winced deeply instead. But as the potion took hold, his breathing evened out, and his pained expression relaxed. He was still pale – unsurprising with the amount of blood he had lost – but they had caught it in time.

Still thrumming with relief and the thrill of combat, Fenris climbed to his feet.

“You'll have to watch for poison,” Dorian said, frowning as he dug in his own belt pouch. He offered Cullen another tiny bottle. “Fever, too. Who knows what was on that thing.”

Turning from the scene, Fenris looked for the Inquisitor. Revem stood in the middle of the space, surrounded by scattered clumps of green muck and ichor that were the only remnants of the demons and their portal. As Fenris walked up beside him, Revem looked from the ground to the sky, a window of blue framed by earth and roots and the leafy branches of the trees above. “The Breach is long gone,” the Inquisitor said slowly. “What caused this rift to form? You know, I’d almost say…” He walked slowly towards one wall, his attention now on the patchy grass of the ground below him. And then Fenris saw it, too; there was a trail through the mud and grass, uneven dents and channels as though something had been dragged. The footprints left by their battle had cut through it in places, but it was still clear enough to follow – the trail led all the way to the sloped wall of the cave, and there smears of mud marked the passage of… something. Something which, it seemed, had been dragged into a jagged opening set into the stone face above them. A small cave, contained within the larger.

“So, drawing lots to decide who goes up to look?” Varric suggested as he came up behind them.

Fenris raised an eyebrow at him. “No need. I’ll go.”

“We’ll cover you,” the Inquisitor said, nodding as he drew his bow. “But be careful. By the looks of it… whatever it was came out of that rift.”

Varric already had Bianca in his hands, the crossbow's arms flaring out with a snap as he double-checked the cartridge of bolts.

“I will go with you,” Briony called as she picked her way across the clearing, also peering at the muddy trail Revem had found as she went. “It’s as like as not to be a demon.”

Fenris climbed up the steep slope easily, Briony following his path. They peered into the gap; it was a cave proper, tall enough to stand straight in – if only just. It went too far back to see all the way in from where they stood, but it appeared empty enough; rock walls and ceiling with a muddy floor.

“I don’t see any movement,” Briony muttered.

At those words, something did move. In the back of the cave, near the floor, the darkness shifted, and two brilliant gold points flared into being. Fenris realised with a start they were eyes, bright as lanterns, peering back at them through the gloom. The creature staggered to its feet: it was taller than either of them. Fenris stepped back, crouching in readiness to fight, all the lyrium brands on his body flaring to life in alarm.

The lyrium lit the whole cave, casting the truth into bright relief, and Fenris’ legs went numb beneath him. He dropped to his haunches in the wet mud of the cave’s floor.

Because it was no creature that stood before them, no demon: it was Hawke. Filthy, bloodied, the pupils of his eyes flaring like fireflies, the Champion of Kirkwall stared back at Fenris.

Chapter Text

Fenris couldn’t move. He was frozen in shock; even his heartbeat was unnaturally slow, all the sound around him receding far into the background. The face looking back at him was so familiar – every line and scar and lock of hair as he remembered them – and yet so different, because light blazed from Hawke’s eyes and moved in faint eddies deep beneath the skin of his temples and throat. His armour was split across the front, the leather straps torn, and a thick coating of dried blood stained the cloth over his chest and stomach. But instead of a wound, the parted edges of his armour showed a red and knotted scar almost the size of his fist. Within the scar, Fenris could see more hints of that shifting golden light.

He could not believe it. And yet he could – because this was Hawke, who had never let the impossible stop him. This was Hawke, alive, returned to him. Fenris hunched over where he knelt, his chest so tight with shock and relief and fear that he could hardly breathe.

But Briony, beside him, reacted as only a Templar could. “What are you, creature?” she demanded, drawing her swords from her back.

Hawke said nothing, gave no sign he had even heard her. He swayed on his feet as he stared, transfixed, at Fenris. Then staggered a step closer, and Briony lifted one sword before her in a pose Fenris distantly recognised, a bloom of power surging within her–

Fenris reacted as he always had when Hawke was threatened. He threw himself at her with a snarl, lyrium flaring like the sun. She hit the stone wall of the cave heavily, swords clattering to the cave floor below, but she didn’t cry out; her voice was choked off in horror when she realised Fenris’ ghostly fist was embedded to the wrist in her breastplate, her heart in his grip. “Do not touch him,” he growled. “Do you understand me?”

She looked mutinous, but she finally nodded jerkily. He released her, stepping back, and she doubled over to drag in lungfuls of air. He watched her warily, teeth bared and tensed – waiting for the counter-attack.

Instead, when she finally straightened, she jabbed a finger towards Hawke. “This is some manner of demon!” She backed towards the cave mouth as she spoke, clearly respecting the threat he posed. “Look at him.”

Fenris did, taking in once more the shifting light beneath Hawke’s skin and blazing in his pupils, and he knew there was sense in what she said. But every instinct he had told him that this was Hawke – his Hawke – altered, perhaps, by months in the Fade, but not replaced. Even if he was wrong, even if this was some odd ruse by a demon, nothing would make him stand by and watch the Champion struck down.

“It is Hawke,” Fenris gritted out, and the widening of Briony’s eyes told him she had not recognised the man before her.

She glanced between them, the bewildered anger on her face slowly resolving. “No,” she insisted at last, her jaw set stubbornly. “That’s not possible, Fenris, you know that – Hawke died. Demons can mimic anybody.”

But Fenris could not accept that. Demons tempted mortals by offering their heart’s desire: a demon’s copy would be perfect, the Hawke Fenris still dreamt of, not this damaged shell of the man. He had seen the visions conjured by Fade beasts himself – much as he would wish to forget – when they retrieved the Somniari Feynriel from the dreams the demons wove to entrap him. The idea of being stranded for nearly half a year in that hazy, monster-infested limbo was terrifying, and he felt another surge of anger on Hawke’s behalf. “He is no demon,” he bit out. Briony backed out of the cave, still shaking her head.

Fenris padded closer to Hawke, his throat tight, barely breathing. His lyrium dimmed until they stood once more in deep shadow; without the glare of Fenris’ own light, the light in Hawke’s pupils gleamed like twin candles, the hints of gold drifting beneath his skin more prominent. Fenris could have reached out and touched Hawke – and part of him wanted to above anything, if only to confirm he was really there – but he held back. Convinced though he may be that this was really Hawke, returned from the dead, there was no denying something was deeply wrong.

“What happened to you?” Fenris asked, almost under his breath.

He started when Hawke reached out a hand – but the Champion only caught a loose strand of Fenris’ hair between two fingers, gazing steadily at him.

“I… looked for you,” Hawke said – and his voice was just like his appearance, familiar and yet so altered it frightened Fenris. There was an odd chime to it, as though several voices were underlaid beneath his own.

Fenris took a step back, hating himself for it, his hair falling through Hawke’s fingers. “Hawke, how can this be?” he asked in an urgent whisper.

Hawke blinked down at himself, his gaze illuminating the blood-caked ruin of his armour, then turned his glowing eyes back to Fenris. He looked puzzled. “I don’t know,” he said in that jarring voice. “What happened?”

Fenris fought the urge to pace as he tried to absorb all of this. “You have been gone for… for some time.”

“Gone?” Hawke asked.

“They said you died, Hawke. In the Fade.” Fenris’ pulse was racing, and none of this felt real – it was half dream, half nightmare. “That was months ago.”

Hawke brought his hand slowly up to his chest, over the deeply indented scar there. Even with his hand covering it, a faint glow was visible in the gaps between his fingers. “It hurt,” Hawke said. Then his breath hitched and he choked. He hunched where he stood, making a rasping noise as he tried to get air in.

“Hawke!” Fenris cried.

Hawke flailed for the wall beside him, still struggling for breath, but his hand didn’t find purchase. Fenris lunged forward to prop him up, all hesitation gone.

At the touch Fenris realised that Hawke was burning with fever, heat radiating from his skin just as light did from his eyes. The muscles in his neck stood out as he fought for air.

“Breathe! Please, Hawke,” Fenris begged.

Hawke’s eyelids began to flutter, the cave becoming darker still as those brilliant pupils were obscured. Fenris half-dragged, half-carried Hawke towards the entrance.

“Fenr–?” Revem froze where he stood in the mouth of the cave, staring in disbelief as Fenris brought his burden into the light.

“Help me or move,” Fenris demanded, struggling beneath the increasingly dead weight of Hawke’s form. “He’s not breathing!”

“Creators,” Revem said as he darted to Hawke’s other side; together they managed to prop the man up as they moved down the slope. Hawke’s head lolled forward, and even his attempts to gasp had stopped.

“Dorian!” Revem yelled.

Cullen was still woozy with blood loss, the damp of the ground beneath him seeping up through the leather of his hose. He had vaguely registered Briony leaving the cave, alone, stalking down the slope to speak with the Inquisitor. But at Revem’s urgent shout, he looked up towards the cave again.

What he saw had him lurching to his feet, all else forgotten except the impossible sight that faced them. Cullen shook his head, blinking, but the image before his eyes stayed the same: Fenris and Revem carried Hawke between them. The Champion was caked in dried blood, and looked to be unconscious or – no, after all this time, to find only a body…

But Dorian was there, green healing magic already flaring out around his hands even as the two elves laid out their burden on the ground. Cullen staggered towards them, as all the others converged on the scene. But Briony caught his elbow as he approached, looking angry and worried. “I don’t believe it is the Champion, Commander,” she whispered fiercely. “Fenris said it is him, but – his eyes were glowing.”

Cullen looked distantly at her, struggling to process anything in that moment. “I don’t know, Knight-Captain. If it’s not Hawke…” He shook his head again, scarcely believing what he was saying. Surely it could not really be Hawke; surely Briony must be right. They had all thought it a miracle when the Inquisitor and the others returned from the Fade after a matter of hours – this… this was not possible. “If it’s not Hawke, I’m sure between all of us we can handle any demon. Though we have no… no precedent for someone who’s spent six months in the Fade.”

Varric approached on Cullen’s other side, white as a sheet, clinging onto Bianca’s stock like a lifeline. For once in all their long acquaintance, the dwarf had no words. Together, they joined the rest of the group – Briony stayed back, pacing as she watched proceedings.

Cassandra stood beside the Inquisitor, staring down over Dorian’s shoulder as the mage pressed his green-wreathed hands against Hawke’s chest. The Champion – and Maker, but it really was him, or so like him Cullen couldn’t tell otherwise – lay stretched out in a patch of grass, his torn armour caked in old blood and a massive scar visible on his chest. Surely if this was a demon Dorian would already have known; healing magic would not work on such a creature. Fenris knelt beside them, close to Hawke but not touching him, his face drawn. Cullen had the impulse to go and stand with him, to provide whatever comfort he could as he would have done readily only hours before – but in an instant, everything had changed.

Dorian leaned forward over Hawke. “He’s a mess,” the mage muttered, tilting his head as his eyes half-closed. “Maker, Hawke, how are you alive? Feels like half his chest is scar tissue… his heartbeat’s thready, but it’s there. His lungs seem to be the main problem, maybe I can…” he trailed off, the green light flaring around his hands, and a moment later Hawke gave a sudden choking cough and dragged in a breath like a man surfacing from deep water. Fenris sighed, shoulders slumping as the worst of the tension left his frame, and Dorian exchanged a relieved glance with Revem.

But when Hawke’s eyes opened they all collectively, except for Fenris, recoiled in alarm. Instead of being black, his pupils – just as Briony had said – shone with golden light, as though the inside of his skull were infused with it. He slowly sat up, and Cassandra backed away with her hand on the hilt of her sword; even Dorian jerked to his feet, and Revem grabbed the mage’s arm to pull him back beside him. Only Varric and Fenris stayed where they were – Varric was even paler than he had been before, while Fenris knelt resolute at the Champion’s side.

Hawke looked around at each of them in turn. His unnerving gold gaze lingered on Fenris, and the corners of his mouth turned up in a dazed smile. Then he looked to Varric, and cocked his head in curiosity.

“Hawke?” Varric’s voice cracked as he asked. “Is it…?” He tore his eyes away from his friend and looked beseechingly to Dorian.

Dorian crouched back down, considering Hawke – from a greater distance this time. The Champion seemed content to observe them all, his wrists resting lightly on his bent knees where he sat. At last, Dorian straightened: “As far as I can tell – it’s him, or mostly him,” he said. Then he narrowed his eyes, frowning. “He is… fade-touched, somehow. I can’t explain exactly what it is.”

“Possession?” Cassandra asked sharply. Her hand hadn’t strayed from her sword.

“I don’t know,” Dorian admitted. “He’s certainly not acting like any abomination I’ve met.”

“Nor I,” Cassandra conceded, though she appeared no less wary.

Revem stepped forward until he was beside Fenris once more, surveying Hawke with a serious expression. “I…” He swallowed thickly. “I saw him die. No-one could have survived that.”

Dorian stretched out his hands, palm up, with a shrug. “We don’t know what is possible. You were bodily in the Fade – there’s no previous accounts to give us any working assumptions.”

“Did I do something wrong?” Hawke asked quietly – and his voice chimed, an odd blend of tones. His own voice was most prominent among them, and Cullen didn’t know whether that was a relief, or only more unnerving. Hawke looked pale, and in the delicate skin on his throat and around his eye sockets Cullen thought he could see some echo of the gold light that shone from his eyes. 

They were all quiet, every face registering different levels of alarm and anxiety, but Fenris knelt up and took one of Hawke’s large hands between both of his. “No. You survived.” He met Hawke’s eyes unflinchingly.

Revem hesitated for only a breath, but then he came forward once more. “It is incredible.” He straightened slightly and settled his worried features into a mask of calm. “But you are not… not well, Hawke. We just need to find out what is wrong.”

Dorian settled down beside Hawke and Fenris again, gnawing on his lip, clearly deep in thought. He reached forward to touch Hawke’s wrist gently, then glanced up at Revem. “He’s burning up, and his pulse is still weak – he needs a healer with more understanding of…” – he waved a hand at Hawke, grimacing – “… whatever this is. I don’t know what sustained him this long, but I get the impression it’s not going to last forever, at least not outside the Fade.”

Fenris’ hands tightened over Hawke’s. “We’ll fix it,” he said, frowning with determination.

Dorian made a considering little noise, rubbing at his forehead. “Never thought I’d have cause to say this… but I wish Solas were here.”

“We could send word to Fiona at the White Spire,” Revem offered. “There must be other experts on the Fade, other somniari – I know they’re rare, but surely she will have contacts, especially with the College of Enchanters re-established.”

Cassandra stepped forward; she was still watching Hawke with suspicion, but there was also a touch of pity – even sadness – in her gaze. “Perhaps Cole would know more, as well – he certainly takes matters of the Fade in stride.” She grimaced. “Though getting an answer that we can make any sense of will be another problem entirely.”

Varric shook himself, lifting his head. His face was still pale, but he no longer seemed quite so close to complete collapse. “Cole would be a good place to start. I – might be able to get in touch with someone else who could help us, too.”

Looking at Fenris, once more the resolute shadow at the Champion’s side, something rose in Cullen’s throat that felt very like panic. He averted his eyes from the scene. Fenris had been devoted to Hawke, for years; while he and Cullen had not even properly discussed what their involvement meant. It would never even have happened had Fenris’ mourning for the Champion not driven him to Skyhold. If Hawke had truly returned… it seemed inevitable that Fenris would return to him. Seemed right, even.

And if the thought caused him pain, well, Cullen had plenty of experience concealing pain for the benefit of others.

Chapter Text

The mood in the Redcliffe taproom was far more subdued this time. Although the residents had greeted them with redoubled enthusiasm after hearing that the demon threat had been dealt with, none of them had realised who exactly it was carried slung on a litter between two of the horses. Even this far south, people knew enough of the Champion of Kirkwall that they would have celebrated his return – but Redcliffe, too often betrayed and terrorised by magic, could not be expected to welcome a possible abomination. None of their party could be grateful that Hawke had lapsed into unconsciousness on the journey, but having those eerie gold eyes closed had at least saved them from attempting to explain what was still inexplicable.

Cullen sipped at his ale, glancing around the room over the rim of his tankard. Revem and Dorian sat side-by-side towards the end of the table. Dorian was drinking with purpose as he considered the situation, murmuring softly every now and then to the elf beside him; Revem was silent, his own wineglass untouched before him. Cassandra leant against the wall at the end of the table, her arms crossed over her breastplate, frowning down at the dark floorboards. Briony had gone for a walk within moments of their arrival – she was uneasy around the Champion. It was only to be expected - she was still a templar, and glowing eyes could represent little else but an uncontained magic. Even Cullen couldn't say he was entirely without concern. If it had been an unknown mage they had found by a rift, looking as Hawke did, he would not have hesitated to put an end to them. What was perhaps worse: he was sure Fenris would have done the same.

Cullen took another mouthful of his ale, then bowed his head over the tankard. Hawke was so far from what he had been. Cullen still bore a sense of responsibility over what happened at Adamant, and seeing Hawke like this made the guilt that much worse. The man had been barely able to stand, let alone walk – Cullen had carried one end of their makeshift litter, with Fenris holding the other, until they had reached Farm Camp and their horses. Hawke burned with fever, often silent and staring or muttering in delirium. He tried to speak to Fenris, gazing up at the elf, but his words rarely made sense.

Fenris’ expression had been taut as a bowstring, forced into blankness. Sometimes, his eyes met Cullen’s, and the fear showed through. Hawke had stopped breathing again a few hours before they reached Redcliffe – his lungs were slowly filling with fluid. Dorian had been able to help faster, this time, knowing what was happening, but it would never be a long-term solution. After that, Hawke slept, and Fenris had looked like a man facing hanging for the rest of the journey.

Now he and Varric were upstairs with Hawke. Neither of them seemed willing to let the Champion out of their sight.

Cullen sighed, pushing the tankard away and folding his hands on the table.

“Are we sure a rejuvenation potion would be of no use?” Cassandra asked suddenly.

Revem shook his head, though it was Dorian who answered: “If only. To all intents and purposes, he is healed. But with the extent of the damage – it was a mortal wound, easily. His lungs and heart cannot function properly with all that scar tissue.” Dorian tugged at one end of his moustache. “This is beyond what either Revem or I can fix.” He took another mouthful of wine, giving an uncharacteristic grimace as he swallowed.

“Then, nothing can be done?” She pushed off the wall, her hands forming fists at her side. “He will die?”

“No. We can’t let that happen,” Revem said, finally breaking his silence. “The fever, the delirium… it must be caused by something – if we can just work out what and cure it, we can manage the chest congestion for weeks… months, perhaps. Long enough to bring in help.” He straightened in his seat. “In the meantime, we must get back to Skyhold as quickly as we can. I can contact the White Spire from there: all the Circles had sending crystals, and according to our reports the Spire’s remained intact. Varric says he should be able to get in touch with his contact the same way.”

Dorian raised his expressive eyebrows. “And do we have any idea who that is, yet?”

Revem shook his head. “Someone he assumes we won’t approve of, I imagine.”

Cullen frowned, scratching at his chin; what had been stubble when they first came through Redcliffe was now substantial enough to properly be called a beard. “A contact near a Circle sending crystal?” he murmured. “It can’t be Kirkwall’s, surely; the Gallows have been abandoned since Samson brought the templars south. I’m sure anything they left of value there is long gone.”

“All going well, we’ll find out soon enough.” Revem got to his feet. “I’ll take Varric and Briony tomorrow before first light. We’ll change horses at every camp if need be – I want to be back at Skyhold in three days at most.”

Part of Cullen wanted to ask that he accompany the Inquisitor instead of Briony, but he understood why Revem didn’t want to leave the templar with Fenris and Hawke. They had all heard, by now, of what transpired in the cave. Cullen inclined his head, then straightened as he spoke: “The rest of us will journey back to Skyhold at an easier pace. I’ll try to buy a covered wagon Hawke can lie in... even a cart would do in a pinch.”

“By the time you get there, hopefully help will already be on the way.” Revem headed towards the stairs. “I’ll go talk to Varric and check how they are managing.”

 “I will find Briony and inform her of your intentions,” Cassandra offered, pushing off of the wall.

After they had gone, Dorian slid into the chair Revem had just vacated, looking now at Cullen. “How are you holding up, in all this?” he asked.

Cullen grimaced. “Still a bit woozy.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Dorian leaned forward, cocking his head to the side. “I know it was new, but… you seemed happy. Both of you. But what happens now?”

“We haven’t exactly had a chance to discuss it.” Cullen leaned back, trying not to give in to the flare of irritation that rose in him. How could the mage possibly expect an answer to that? Cullen himself did not expect one, not yet. “I appreciate the concern, Dorian. I just… honestly, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fair enough.” Dorian shrugged, though his worried expression suggested anything but nonchalance. “Another drink, then?”

“I shouldn't.” Cullen stood. “Not the best idea after losing that much blood, and – well, there are some things alcohol can’t fix.”

“Don’t say that around my mother,” Dorian muttered with a slightly forced smile. “She’s based most of her existence on drinking her cares away.”

“I’ll bear that in mind on the very remote possibility we’re ever even in the same country.” Cullen stretched his back out and grimaced. He could feel the tacky coating of dried blood and sweat, dust and mud that coated his skin. “I might see if I can find a basin of warm water before I turn in.” There were no guarantees of getting another chance to wash before reaching Skyhold, and it was going to be uncomfortable enough wearing the blood-crusted layers of padding beneath his armour, even without cleaning the worst of it off his skin.

As Cullen moved towards the hallway that led to the rear of the complex, he saw Dorian reach for the wineglass before him – then change his mind and push it firmly away.

Hawke was completely still as he slept, head tilted back on the pillow; the slight rasp of his breathing was the only sign he still lived. Fenris sat on a wooden chair beside the bed, leaning forward with his lips against his folded hands, elbows braced on his knees.

Varric looked up from his own chair, his head heavy as he scrubbed a hand across his face. “I’ll stay with him, Fenris, if you want to go get cleaned up, maybe get some food…”

Fenris spared a glance for his armour, spattered with mud and Cullen’s blood and black patches of ichor. He shook his head numbly. “You go, if you wish.” There was no way he could leave. Hawke’s fever had not improved at all. His skin was pale, his dark hair sweat-damp and matted. Somehow, his hair and beard had not grown from what Fenris remembered, despite all the months he had been missing. It was like stepping into the Fade had frozen him in time.

Varric looked steadily across at Hawke, regret clear on his bold features. “I should have done more,” he said finally.

“Done what, exactly?” Fenris tipped his head further forward, letting his palms slide up over his eyes.

“Anything would have been better than nothing. I didn’t see it happen!” Varric persisted, gritting his teeth as he gestured sharply with one hand. “Afterwards, I just took the Inquisitor’s word for it and went right to mourning. Nobody even tried to find him. We had a damn Fade expert living at Skyhold and no-one even thought to check!”

Fenris lifted his head, scowling at the dwarf. “Yes, because I’m sure another jaunt in the Fade to recover what everyone expected to be a body would have turned out so well. You heard what the mage said. It was a mortal wound.” He turned back to Hawke, his expression bleak. “Anyway, who knows what his fate will be now. It may not be any better than we all thought.” His voice quavered slightly as he said it, but he refused to hide from the fact. Seeing Hawke like this, it was difficult to expect a good ending.

Varric’s frown deepened and he opened his mouth to speak, but then he stopped himself. He slid down from his seat. “I’ll be back soon. I’ll bring you some food.”

He opened the door to leave as Revem approached up the stairs. “Ah, just the dwarf I needed to see.”

“Inquisitor.” Varric nodded tiredly in greeting. “Was just going to find a meal for us.”

“Of course. I’ll come with you, fill you in on our next steps.” Revem glanced through the doorway at Hawke stretched out on the bed and Fenris beside him. “I’ll come back in a moment to look in on Hawke and Fenris.”

Fenris watched the door click closed, and stayed staring at it a moment longer. Hawke and Fenris.  

Fenris... loved Hawke. He was sure that would never change. Being without him, he had felt incomplete – had felt aimless, a ship without a rudder. Fenris wanted desperately to have Hawke back, as he had been, himself again. He missed Hawke’s laugh, their easy closeness, the way they worked off each other in a fight. The way Hawke kissed, and wrapped his larger frame around Fenris to pull him close.

He missed all of it, but then, he had known the way it felt to miss Hawke since well before Varric’s letter had arrived. They had been apart for months even before Hawke’s ‘death’ – and loneliness brought with it anger and frustration at how readily he had been left behind. Hawke had taught Fenris what it was to love, and then he had taught him that loving someone – needing someone – wasn’t always enough. Fenris had felt like a fool, tricked by the one person he had trusted above all others. Hawke had promised they would stay together, and then he had left without a word. Even if Fenris could forget that, there was no way to be sure how much of Hawke had really returned to him. The idea of losing Hawke all over again – and of watching him die, this time, or worse, if he truly were possessed – shook Fenris to his core.

Fenris was afraid. He was afraid for Hawke, and of him – of whatever force had tainted him. 

Hawke’s breath caught in his throat, and his head rocked slightly on the pillow. Fenris jolted to his feet, leaning over the bed as Hawke choked soundlessly. But finally air shuddered into the man’s lungs and he relaxed once more into sleep. Fenris closed his eyes as he rested his balled fists on the mattress. When he opened them again, he let himself stare at Hawke; alone, now, with none to judge any apprehension his face might show, he drank in every familiar feature. If he looked beyond the drifting gold beneath Hawke’s skin, he saw the long eyelashes, high cheekbones with their smattering of freckles, dark brows and beard that were so magnetically attractive, the face of a man Fenris had loved for so long – and still did. He reached carefully over to lift Hawke’s head slightly and adjust the pillow beneath him.

Garrett. Fenris paused there, hand still threaded in Hawke’s dark hair. His eyes felt hot, and his chest was tight, and he was ashamed that he had been happy while Hawke wandered the Fade looking for a way back to him.

The horses moved steadily up the mountain at a walk, hooves thudding on the frozen ground. The sun was shining, and even at this altitude there were signs of spring. The evergreens were now only dusted with snow, and green buds had begun to form on the few deciduous trees that grew this high in the mountains.

Despite the beautiful day, and despite being barely half a day’s ride from Skyhold, the mood in the group was grim. Hawke’s periods of consciousness had grown briefer and rarer as they travelled, while Dorian’s interventions were needed more often. Hawke’s breathing was now a hoarse rattle which never cleared, audible even over the rumbling of the wagon’s wheels, and his fever was higher than ever.

Cassandra rode beside Cullen, her angular face grave as she swayed side-to-side with the steady gait of her mount. “Whoever the Inquisitor has found to advise on this situation, I fear they will be making a long journey for nothing,” she said.

Cullen shifted in his seat, bracing his hand on the saddle as he glanced behind them. The wagon rolled smoothly in the hands of their elven groom. The man was Dalish, used to manoeuvring aravels and skittish halla; a four-wheeled trader wagon behind a pair of draught horses was no challenge. But, carrying the dying Champion of Kirkwall laid out on a pallet behind him, he was being especially cautious. Dorian slumped tiredly on the front bench beside the driver; far from his usual brash overconfidence, he looked completely defeated. Cullen could just see the back of Fenris’ head over the edge of the wagon – he sat beside Hawke, helping to brace the man’s unconscious form.

Cullen turned back to face the road ahead, jaw set as he forced thoughts of Fenris from his mind. “Hawke has come this far – he may surprise you. He was always stubborn as anything.”

Cassandra peered at the landscape around them. “We’ll be in sight of Skyhold soon. Not long.” She sat forward in her seat, flexing her gauntleted hands on the reins. “Perhaps you are right.”

Soon the pass broadened into a familiar valley, bordered by mountains all around. Ahead of them, high above on the steep mountain face beyond, lay Skyhold. It appeared to be crouched precariously atop rocky spires that jutted from the slope, but Cullen knew the foundations were carved from those spires themselves and hollowed out from the mountain behind it; like an ancient tree, Skyhold’s roots were sunk into the very rock beneath it. Once they were through the shallow bowl of the frozen valley, they had only to make their way up one final snow-veiled slope to reach the bridge that would bring them into the keep.

It felt rather a lot like coming home, Cullen realised.

He urged his horse down the road, Cassandra keeping her mount close beside his.

“Venhedis! Hawke!”

Cullen looked back once more just as Fenris lurched up to kneeling. Cullen could hear a hollow wooden thumping; he saw Dorian look back and leap down from the bench seat as though it had scorched him. Frowning, Cullen dismounted and handed his reins to Cassandra as he went to investigate.

The scene in the wagon was not good: Hawke was convulsing, frame rigid, his heels drumming irregularly against the wood as his feet stuttered. Fenris was barely managing to keep the man’s head from striking the back of the wagon, both hands acting as a shield. Dorian scrambled in beside them both, grabbing one of Hawke’s shoulders. “Try to get him onto his side," he instructed. Cullen moved forward without hesitation to help the others reposition Hawke.

“You have to stop it!” Fenris demanded, staring wild-eyed up at Dorian as he clutched at Hawke’s shuddering form. “Please!”

Dorian looked stricken. “I can’t… there’s nothing I can do.”

Blood and foam had begun to seep from the corner of Hawke’s mouth, and what little colour had remained in his face drained away.

“No…” Fenris murmured, hunched over Hawke. “No, Garrett! Come on!”

Suddenly the Champion stilled. His head dropped against Fenris’ hands, his feet giving one final twitch before they stopped.

Dorian pressed his hands urgently against the pulse points at Hawke’s throat and wrist, healing magic already blooming around them, and for a moment the whole scene was as still as Hawke. Nothing moved, nobody drew breath, waiting for the Champion’s.

Dorian breathed out a low sigh, letting his head fall forward. “He lives.”

Hawke coughed weakly, more blood and froth issuing from his mouth, and air seeped wetly into his lungs.

Dorian looked to Cullen. “We need to get to Skyhold, Cullen. Surely someone there must be able to help – I don’t know if I’ll get him back the next time,” Dorian finished, his voice barely above a whisper. He was ashen under his dark skin, and there were bruises beneath his eyes. Cullen recognised the signs of overuse of magic. Dorian’s power was ill-suited to this, and the strain was showing.

Cullen nodded. “No time to waste, then. We'll have to move faster - just," Cullen cleared his throat. He couldn't seem to meet Fenris' eye. "Just hold on to Hawke."

Cassandra had ridden back beside the wagon, and she held out his reins. Cullen hauled himself up into the saddle, then urged the charger on. He looked up again at Skyhold, beckoning them from the mountainside. “Maker, let us not be too late,” he breathed.

Chapter Text

Fenris sat half-wrapped around Hawke, one leg and shoulder braced against the side of the wagon as it clattered and rattled up the final part of the slope towards Skyhold. Hawke was burning hot, his skin mottled red and white and now laced with hints of gold light visible even in the day. A freezing wind swirled down the valley behind them, carrying a dusting of tiny snowflakes; those that touched Hawke disappeared into wisps of steam. “Just a little further,” Fenris murmured, glancing behind him – they were approaching the fortified barbican that led onto the bridge, the horses’ lengthened strides rapidly closing the distance.

For an instant, Fenris remembered staring out across the bridge through a whirling torrent of snow, trying to find the strength to stand on his numb feet. It had been folly. He could easily have died out here, chasing a ghost, while Hawke remained trapped in the Fade. His arms tightened reflexively.

They passed through the band of shadow beneath the barbican, and then they were on the bridge, the ride evening out as the wagon rumbled across the stone surface.

Fenris spared another look behind as they approached the vast gate inset into the towering walls of Skyhold. The portcullis was already being hauled slowly upwards to admit them. Fenris heard Cullen calling out instructions, though the wind carried away too much of what was said to make out the words. Finally, their small convoy came through the gate and into Skyhold proper, into sudden quiet as the walls shielded them from the wind. Runners were already scattering, summoned by Cullen or sent from the keep that towered above them.

A vaguely familiar young woman in an apron hurried down the stairs from the upper courtyard, trailed by two Inquisition soldiers bearing a stretcher. Fenris remembered her as she approached – this was one of the attendants from the infirmary, the dark-haired human girl who had been there the last time he left. Ella, perhaps? She paused to give a slight curtsy before she stepped up onto the wagon, staring openly at Hawke even as she knelt beside them. “I can’t believe it’s really him,” she murmured, it seemed more to herself than to Fenris. “Is it possible?” Her hand went to his forehead, the other to his wrist. “Maker, the fever… mind, there’s a lot we can try. Let’s get him inside.”

Fenris was reluctant to let Hawke go, but the soldiers had already laid their stretcher across the base of the wagon. He extricated himself from behind Hawke, gently laying the taller man down with the nurse’s help as he moved aside. The soldiers slid Hawke expertly onto the stretcher, knotting the ties firmly into place around him before they hefted him off the wagon and towards the stairs. Hawke’s feet dangled over the edge, jolting with each step they took.

Looking at him from this distance, Fenris realised that Hawke had lost weight in the days since his escape from the Fade; at first, he had looked exactly as Fenris remembered him, but now his skin was stretched taut across his high cheekbones and there was an obvious dip between his ribcage and stomach.

“Come on,” the young nurse said, stretching out a hand to help Fenris up.

“Thank you,” Fenris murmured, and forced himself to take the offered hand despite the surge of discomfort that tingled down his arm at the contact.

“No use trying to keep this a secret,” she began as she hurried to follow the stretcher-bearers, “but the Inquisitor thought it best he not be too public, not in his state – there’s a room ready overlooking the garden. I think he stayed there before.”

As he followed her up the stairs, he held the arm subtly out from himself and kept his expression carefully neutral as he waited for the oversensitive skin around the brands to calm. His hands had always been particularly bad for this – the lines were more densely packed there than anywhere else on his body. Holding steel or glass or leather had little effect, but the touch of fabric or the flesh of another rarely failed to summon a skin-crawling ache.

He had wanted Hawke’s touch, because he loved Hawke and would have borne with far worse to be close to him. Hawke had learned to be cautious, learned the areas to avoid, learned to read Fenris’ reactions without him having to say anything. But there were times it was as much pain as pleasure.

It was not like that with Cullen – was that how the touch of another was meant to feel? As he climbed the steps, Fenris glanced back down to where the rest of their contingent still waited. Cullen was standing with Cassandra, his fair hair mussed and his lips chapped with cold. He looked tired in a way that seemed more than just a few days of sleeping rough – this could not be easy for him, either. They had barely exchanged words since Hawke’s retrieval. It seemed impossible that only a few days earlier, things had been so easy between them.

Cullen half turned and caught Fenris looking. He hesitated for half a breath, then smiled weakly, raising his fingers in greeting.

Fenris bowed his head, and turned away. Shame gnawed at him – that he could think of Cullen again even as Hawke lingered at the threshold of death.

“I was pretty well convinced he wasn’t going to make it this far.” Varric fell into step beside him as they passed through the main hall, moving almost at a trot to keep pace with their little procession. The nurse opened a side door for them, holding it as they passed through. “Not that it looks good, all the same.”

“It was close,” Fenris admitted grimly, keeping his eyes fixed ahead on the back of the stretcher-bearer. “The mage exhausted himself to manage it.” They were heading up a stairway, the men carrying Hawke adjusting their hold to keep his form level.

Varric blew out a breath. “Thank the Maker for Dorian. Guess I better forgive that fifteen royals he owes me.” He squinted up at Fenris. “You don’t look all that great yourself, Broody. Have you slept at all since we found him?”

It had been a week of naps slumped against Hawke’s bedside or folded in the back of the wagon, of forcing himself to eat despite the leaden mass of fear in his gut. Of watching Hawke slowly worsen, waiting for what seemed inevitable.

But Fenris could see the dark circles under the dwarf’s own eyes and the worry etched into his broad features. “Not all that much less than you, I’m guessing.”

Varric sighed. “Hard to sleep when you’re expecting to be woken by terrible news.” They emerged onto the mezzanine floor above the great hall’s double doors; Fenris recognised the route, and realised the room they had chosen for Hawke must be on the same first-floor terrace where Fenris’ own quarters were situated.

As it turned out, it was the room right beside his own, so similar he half-expected to see his few possessions strewn across the desk. Instead there was an array of healing supplies: cloths, potions, vials of herbs, a dish of water. It was surreal to watch Hawke – living, if barely – laid out on the bed, in the place where Fenris had come to mourn his death.

Varric’s frown deepened as he got a better look at Hawke’s state: visibly thinner, his skin waxy and mottled, with that faint unnatural hint of burning gold tracing the lines of his major blood vessels. Hawke was almost too dehydrated to sweat anymore, though the fever still burned through him.

“Well, shit,” Varric muttered, nodding distractedly to the soldiers as they left. He and Fenris watched in silence as the nurse laid one damp cloth on Hawke’s forehead and scrunched up another in her hand.

“His Worship said no-one was too sure what was causing this,” she said quietly as she carefully dabbed at Hawke’s throat. She hesitated as she reached a part where light gleamed within Hawke’s pale skin. Her voice softened even further as she asked: “is it true he was in the Fade, all this time?”

Varric and Fenris exchanged glances: Fenris was unsure what the official line was, but apparently the dwarf had no such reservations. “Yeah, that’s what it looks like,” Varric said. “I kind of have a feeling all the typical remedies are only going to go so far.”

She paused a moment longer, then sponged at the affected flesh with even greater care. “Well, there’s no harm in trying. His Worship will be here soon, I’m sure of it.”

Fenris found a spot on the wall to lean again, staving off the urge to pace, while Varric pulled up a chair towards the bed. “Maker!” the nurse said suddenly. She had opened the top buttons of Hawke’s shirt, and found the mass of scar tissue there.

Fenris had never wanted to look at it, but in the course of caring for Hawke he had seen it plenty of times. There was a strange look to it, the shiny skin healed in a raised whorl that permitted that damned golden light to glow through in a spiral pattern. If Hawke lived, he would carry a permanent reminder of whatever intervention in the Fade had sealed it and saved him.

At that moment the doorknob rattled and, as though summoned by the mere mention of him, Revem let himself into the room. The Inquisitor’s blue eyes were tired, and his usual braid was unravelled so that his hair hung loose about his face. He nodded to Fenris and Varric as he came across to stand near the bed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sorry, I meant to be here earlier – I had to make sure Dorian was actually resting.” Revem shook his head. “He would have come if I’d let him, but he’s beyond exhausted.”

Fenris nodded gravely. “He did enough – more than enough.”

Revem gave him a wry smile. “Try telling him that.” He looked back over his shoulder, shoving his hair back behind his pointed ear. “Come in.”

Fenris followed the Inquisitor’s gaze, to see that Cole stood in the doorway. The former spirit’s hand rested lightly on the frame as he peered into the room with an expression of undisguised curiosity. There was something cat-like about him, the way he moved, and the way he watched things with such intense fascination. And, fittingly for being a ‘wolf’, Fenris’ hackles were up the moment Cole came into view. Still, at least it was an improvement over simply appearing somewhere in the room.

“Cole can help,” Revem said, gesturing for the boy to come in again. "He knows what's wrong."

“He found you,” Cole said, sounding impressed. “That was hard, he can’t slip through the weave in the veil in that shape.” He approached the bed and stopped a respectful distance away, still watching Hawke. “I need to talk to him.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “You’ll find that difficult. He is unconscious.”

“Yes,” Cole agreed. His ice-blue eyes were open and guileless as the sky.

Fenris looked away, shrugging with affected casualness – he would never admit how unsettling he found that steady stare. “As you will,” he said gruffly.

Cole stepped up to bed, almost eagerly, hands clasped in front of him. He looked intently down at Hawke. “Hello,” he said, voice bright and almost too loud, as though he was calling across a distance. “I’m Cole. Once I was Compassion.” He was still a moment, he head cocked a little as though he really was listening. “I know nothing seems to work as it should – it’s all different, here. Rules, rigid, rights and wrongs. Command didn’t understand either. Mortal bodies are strange places, even whole ones, without-hole ones.” Cole leaned forward a little as he spoke, a touch of sadness in his face. “You protected him for a long time, but you know you can’t protect him anymore – not here. The Nightmare took too much. You have to let go.” Cole reached out and laid his hand lightly over one of Hawke’s. “He can heal here, and you can heal there.” Once again the silence stretched for a long moment while he just stood there, eyes open but focussed on nothing. Then Fenris realised that Cole’s form had become hazy around the edges, hints of a drifting smoke blurring him against the room behind him. Those otherworldly blue eyes were even paler, more distant. When he spoke once more, it was barely a whisper. “You helped him get back. Let me help you get back, too.”

Hawke’s body gave a sudden lurch, gold flaring beneath his skin as he arched off the bed like a bow bending until only his head and feet remained pressed into the mattress. Light surged visibly through the veins on his neck and cheeks as every muscle strained, and Hawke dragged in a gasped breath. All at once the tension snapped from his frame and Hawke fell back heavily.

Fenris took one hurried step closer and stopped short when Hawke’s eyelids jolted open: the gold light, more piercingly bright than ever, had now spread across the whole of his iris and sclera and seeped out into the skin around them.

The sight brought a memory crashing into Fenris like a physical blow: Anders, possessed by Justice, blue light piercing his skin and pouring from his eyes. Fenris felt his lyrium brands flare: his hand went automatically behind his shoulder, scrabbling for the hilt of a sword he did not wear as he backed away.

The nurse was already cowering in a corner of the room, wide eyes sliding between the two glowing figures. Alarm showed clearly on Varric’s face, but he held Bianca steady, a bolt already in the notch. Revem too had stepped back from the bed; he stood ramrod straight, one hand clasped over the other.

Hawke took a long, strained breath, chest heaving with effort. “I saved him,” came a hoarse whisper through Hawke’s cracked lips – this time there was none of Hawke’s usual voice there at all, only the odd, echoey tones that had previously been layered beneath. “Helped him to find the thin places. But you speak the truth.” Another deep, difficult breath, and then the voice said: “I entrust him to you.”

The light began to flow out of Hawke and into the air – streaming visibly from his eyes as it drained from the rest of his form, it seemed to coalesce into some half-visible image above the bed before it whispered away and disappeared.

With a sigh, eyes drifting closed again, Hawke slumped back against the mattress. For one horrible moment, he was utterly still, but then he took in a shallow rasp of a breath. And then another. He still lived. Fenris let his hands fall back by his sides, shivering as the lyrium charge left him.

Cole stepped away from the bed, nodding – he seemed immediately more solid again, his face satisfied. “It’s just him, now. I can’t talk to him though – he’s not awake.”

When the nurse remained where she was, staring at Hawke as though she expected him to leap from the bed at any moment, Revem stepped up to the bedside himself. He laid a hand against Hawke’s forehead, then pressed two fingers against the pulse in his neck, a frown of concentration on his delicate features.

“Well?” Varric asked.

“His heartbeat seems steady enough.” Revem chewed at his lower lip. “Fenris, when did he last drink, or eat?”

The words took a moment to filter through Fenris’ daze. He felt utterly thrown by what he had witnessed, his mind entangled with demons and abominations and a misguided mage with a death wish. He forced himself to concentrate on the Inquisitor. “He… barely ate even on the first day,” Fenris said. He thought he should go closer to the bedside, but he couldn’t seem to make his feet move. “He drank a lot, at first. But in the last two days… hardly at all.” Hawke possessed, all this time? He wanted to deny it could be possible – Hawke was not a mage, Hawke was not weak. But another part of him had been expecting it since they found him, had known nothing natural could explain Hawke’s survival.

Revem nodded and glanced across at the nurse expectantly.

That seemed to shake her out of her own shock. “I’ll –” She swallowed and tried again. “I’ll see if I can drip feed some water, Inquisitor. Maybe even broth.” She edged around the fringes of the room, keeping her distance from the bed until she was beside the door.

“Thank you, Ellie.”

The girl ducked out with obvious relief. As soon as the door clicked closed behind her, Varric turned wide-eyed to Cole. “Andraste’s ass, Kid, what was that?”

Cole seemed unphased, calm as if he had just been having a chat in the Herald’s Rest rather than communing with the Fade. “A spirit, or, a part of one.”

“Then Hawke is… an abomination?” Fenris grated out.

“No, it wasn’t the right kind for that – not hungry, hunting, hankering for power, but helping. Holding him together.” Cole shook his head a little. “There wasn’t enough of it to take over, anyway – fragments, just enough to protect a little longer. It’s gone, now.”

Revem was frowning thoughtfully. “There was a spirit that helped us, in the Fade. Surely it couldn’t be.”

Cole looked at him. “I didn’t meet it.” Finally, a frown of his own drifted across his boyish face. “I am glad I wasn’t there. I don’t think I would have liked it, not anymore.”

Fenris staggered away to lean against the wall, his mind still fighting against accepting what he had just witnessed. The weight of everything from the last week was catching up with him. He lifted his hands to his head, scraping his nails back through his hair.  

While Revem continued to try and get any sense out of Cole, Varric came to stand with Fenris. “I would ask how you’re holding up, but I think the answer’s probably obvious,” he suggested, absently checking Bianca was secure in her holster as he spoke. “Are you going to argue with me again if I say you should go and get some rest?”

Much to Fenris’ surprise, he felt no urge to. He was exhausted, physically, emotionally and mentally. The need to remain with Hawke through all of this was opposed by the urge to get himself as far as possible from the scene he had just witnessed. And as the shock drained away, it left behind a bone-weariness that subsumed everything else he might have felt. He nodded woodenly.

“I’ll stay here,” Varric offered, though Fenris had assumed it already. “I’ll come wake you up if anything at all changes.”

Fenris kept his eyes away from the bed as he left the room.

Chapter Text

Cullen scanned through the missive from Ser Morris. “I have no objection,” he said to the waiting clerk as the man hurried to get ink on his quill. “Though tell Morris he may want to clear it with the captain of the troops assigned there, ensure nobody’s toes are stepped on.”

The man nodded, scribbling at a frantic pace. “Thank you, Commander, I will let him know.”

The clerk hurried from the room, blowing on the new set of notes before him. Cullen would give it a half hour before he saw the man again, carrying some other assignment or supply change for his approval.

They had been gone barely a fortnight, but already it was clear that the winter lull was well and truly over. As the weather steadily improved, a surprising number of Inquisition members were trickling back into the fold, not only to Skyhold, but to encampments all over Ferelden and Orlais. Many of them had apparently sown their enthusiasm where they went, for there were plenty of new faces among those returning. It seemed the Inquisition would continue to grow, and with ever more people to train and house and feed, the demands on the leadership would grow with it.

Cullen himself was glad, for once, to see the pile of papers mounting up on his desk. Work was a useful distraction, both from the situation with Fenris, and from the familiar headache that had accompanied him back from Redcliffe. He wasn’t really sure which hurt more.

He clenched and relaxed his jaw, taking a long breath. Then he turned his attention resolutely back to the tasks before him.

He heard the door swing open a short while later when his own assistant returned, but didn’t look up as he frowned over the latest piece of correspondence. “Carris, can you find my copy of the assignments for the Dales?” he asked. “Oh, and Morris needs that requisition notice for the Blades of Hessarian’s new armour.” When there was no response, he finally glanced up. It was not Carris, but Dorian, leaning against the doorframe and looking vaguely amused despite the remaining hints of fatigue in his face. He held a folded wooden chessboard tucked under one arm.

Cullen blinked, surprised. “Dorian – I wasn’t expecting you to be up and about so soon.” He got to his feet. “How are you feeling?”

Dorian sighed as he came across to the desk. “Dreadful, actually, but I woke when Revem came to check on me and I couldn’t seem to get back to sleep.” He shook his head, wrinkling his aquiline nose. “Worried about Hawke, of course. Where is the infamous altus callousness when I need it?” He pulled up a chair, just about collapsing into it.

Cullen took his cue to return to his own seat. “Ah. Have you just come from there?”

“Yes, duty of care and all that I suppose.” Dorian folded one leg over the other and leaned back.

Cullen rubbed at the calluses on the back of his knuckles. “How is Hawke? I – well, I should probably look in on him myself.”

Dorian gave him a look that was far too close to pitying for Cullen’s comfort. “No one would blame you for not, in the circumstances.” The mage cleared his throat. “He hasn’t been properly awake yet, so it’s hard to say. But the fever’s down – and apparently he stirred once, wanted water. I suppose speaking of any kind is a good start.”

Cullen felt the hair prickle on the nape of his neck at the thought of it. He had known the Fade had changed Hawke, of course, but the man had not really presented as an abomination – was not even a mage. He was thankful he had not been there when Cole had confronted the… spirit, demon, whatever it was. He had seen enough men and women possessed for one lifetime. “What are we expecting, realistically? He was as close to being an abomination as anyone gets, without it being permanent.”

“Anyone’s guess. Even with those who are truly possessed, results can differ dramatically,” Dorian mused, rubbing his chin. “Apparently one of the Warden’s companions was sustained by a spirit of Faith, for years, and seemed utterly unchanged. Even Hawke’s friend mostly seemed to have control of himself.”

“Oh yes, mostly in control… just some slight Chantry destruction,” Cullen said with more than a hint of bitterness. He had barely known Anders in the Ferelden circle, except by reputation. The mage had spent so much time either in solitary confinement or on the run that he had rarely been in sight to remember for a recruit like Cullen was then. Even in Kirkwall, when Cullen had eventually pinned down where he’d seen Anders’ face before, he’d had no real wish to cripple Hawke’s progress. The Champion seemed about the only one managing to do some good in the city, no matter how unorthodox his choice of companions – and Cullen had problems enough within the existing ranks of the Gallows. If Cullen had known what the man truly was, not only a mage but an abomination… but well, what was one more regret to add to the list he had accrued in that damned place?

“From what Revem and Varric tell me,” Dorian went on, cutting through Cullen’s self-reproach, “it at least sounds like the spirit that came with Hawke had good intentions.”

“For what that’s worth,” Cullen muttered.

There was another rap at the door, and this time it was Cullen’s assistant. Carris looked slightly out of breath and red in the face, like she’d been running. She saluted sharply. “Commander, you’re wanted at the gates.”

A hot breeze drifted through the grove, rustling the grey-green branches above him. The women were singing at the river nearby, their clear voices floating over the whisper of olive leaves.

“Leto–”

Fenris startled awake, the dream slipping away.

Someone was knocking at the door, and in the few breaths it took to sit up and put his feet on the floor he remembered what he had been waiting to hear of. He staggered across and yanked the door open, squinting in the glaring sunlight. A young dwarven man in Inquisition green and brown stood there, wide-eyed at the sight of him. “Yes?” Fenris glanced sideways, towards the room he had left Hawke in. “Is there news of the Champion?”

The dwarf shook his head in confusion. “No, I’m – I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s an individual at the gate asking for you and Master Tethras.”

“I see.” Fenris pushed his long hair back off his face.

“A mage, it looks like,” the dwarf said, clearly concerned. “Couldn’t get away from there fast enough as soon as I saw the staff.” Then his expression turned sheepish. “I mean, not that I have anything against them really – the mages in the Inquisition are fine, just makes me nervous when it’s a stranger.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows slightly. “Very well. I will be there shortly.” He closed the door on the bowing dwarf, shaking his head. Fenris knew well that you could not be too careful around mages – well enough not to consider apologising for it.

It was the matter of moments to be dressed and out the door. Outside the sun was low enough in the sky to touch the slope of the mountain, throwing a deep yellow-orange light over Skyhold, but Fenris knew it was not as late as it appeared – evening came early this time of year. He had probably slept only a few hours.

He hesitated as he passed Hawke’s room, but there was no time – Varric was ahead of him on the terrace, already hurrying through the far doorway. Fenris wasn’t sure whether to feel annoyed or… relieved that the request had kept him from visiting with Hawke – Hawke, who now might live... who had been possessed.

He shook his head to clear it of the memory of that golden light pouring from Hawke’s face, and easily caught up with Varric.

“What’s this about, dwarf?” he asked as they drew level on the stairs.

“Part of the effort to help Hawke,” Varric explained. “I got in touch with a mutual friend when I came back to Skyhold last week. I gotta say, she’s made good time.”

Fenris balked at the idea of this mage, whoever they were, being considered his 'friend', but there were more pressing concerns. “How is Hawke?”

“Good, I think? Mostly just asleep … he was mumbling about water at one point – had a few actual mouthfuls.” Varric made a face. “Sounds crazy to think that’s good.”

“It is progress,” Fenris offered, though it was precious little balm for the fear he still bore. He could not accept, no matter how much he wanted to, that Hawke might truly recover from all this.

There were more guards present at the gate than Fenris would usually expect, and a few conspicuous robed mages stood around watching the new arrival with wary faces. The visiting mage was a slight figure almost entombed in winter clothing – wrapped fur boots, a scarf and high-collared jacket, all covered by a cloak with the hood pulled firmly up – and with a staff strapped across their back. A covered cart sat nearby, hitched to a pair of shaggy mountain ponies; the driver’s hood was also raised, but there were deep blue Dalish tattoos clearly visible on her cheeks and throat.

In the midst of the throng, Cullen stood with Dorian at his side. The altus still looked tired, but more himself in his fussy Tevinter garb and with his hair and moustache carefully groomed. Cullen, in gleaming plate armour and with his heavy cloak about his shoulders, looked every inch the forbidding Commander of the Inquisition's forces: a severe expression sharpened the planes of his face, and his hair shone gold in the slanting evening sunlight. But when Cullen saw Fenris watching him, his eyes immediately softened. This time, Fenris didn’t turn away; he couldn’t seem to do so, whatever duty might compel him. Their gaze held – distantly, Fenris realised he had stopped walking.

But Dorian had already strode over to meet them. “Varric,” he said quietly. “Apparently, you have invited a blood mage into our midst?”

And that caught Fenris’ notice enough to finally pull his attention from Cullen – he was fairly confident he knew who this mage was, and a second glance was enough to confirm it. Fenris would have recognised that pair of impossibly large green eyes anywhere. Before he could say anything, Varric had spread his arms and approached with a grin. “Daisy!”

“Creators, Varric, but I’d forgotten how cold Ferelden is,” Merrill said, her voice somewhat muffled by all the layers of fabric. “Your friends are dreadfully suspicious, you know. You’d think blood magic were catching!”

“Or perhaps they’ve just seen enough of it for one lifetime,” Dorian said dryly, frowning at the pair of them.

“Sparkler, come on. She may be a bit – well, all right, extremely – eccentric, but she’s here to help.” He gestured at Merrill, who was attempting to disentangle the scarf from around her neck and mostly succeeding in choking herself, and then reached up to help her. “Merrill, meet Dorian.”

Dorian’s eyes widened just a fraction. “Merrill – the one from The Tale of the Champion?”

Varric turned his smile on Dorian. “Why, I’m always touched to meet a fan.”

Dorian rolled his eyes, but none of the tension left him.

With Varric’s assistance, Merrill finally extracted herself from her scarf, revealing her familiar fine-boned face. “I don’t use it much anymore, you know. I didn’t mean to ruffle any feathers – the change in aura’s permanent, I’m afraid, whatever I do.”

“Yes, which makes you more susceptible to demonic possession,” Dorian pointed out sharply.

“Well yes, but I am careful about that,” she said blithely, nodding.

Cullen stepped across to join them, and something in his air had everyone’s attention on him immediately. “Merrill.” His back was ramrod straight, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword as he surveyed her. “I know you are an associate of Hawke’s – and I appreciate that this is a delicate situation. But you should know that blood magic will not be tolerated here under any circumstances. Is that understood?”

“Oh… yes, of course.” She looked at him with a faintly wounded expression. “I really wasn’t planning to anyway, I promise.”

Cullen nodded shortly. “Then on behalf of the Inquisition, I welcome you to Skyhold.” He stepped back out of the group, Dorian with him – Fenris’ eyes wanted to follow after Cullen once more, but Merrill drew his attention with an eager wave.

“Hello, Fenris!”

Fenris’ animosity for the mage had cooled somewhat in the time since the battle at the Gallows. During the months he’d whiled away in Kirkwall after Hawke’s departure, Fenris had even helped Merrill on occasion – she had devoted herself to repairing the damage done to the alienage in the riots, and there had been plenty of work there for any willing to lend a pair of hands and a strong back. When he’d last seen her, she had begun teaching simple magic to young mages coming into their talents, now left without a Circle to turn to for tuition. Fenris had grudgingly acknowledged the necessity, because there were few dangers more unpredictable than an untrained mage - and at least her lessons never included blood magic. Thankfully age, experience and the loss of her Keeper had at last taught her to be cautious with such forces.

Even so, she was still a blood mage, one who had been – even if it was primarily in the past – hopelessly naïve and reckless. Fenris would never be truly comfortable around her. “Merrill,” he acknowledged, folding his arms across his chest in case she got any ideas about embracing him like she had Varric.

“How is Hawke?” she asked, looking from Fenris to Varric and back again as she tucked her bottom lip between her teeth.

“He’s… it’s hard to say, yet,” Varric said slowly. “Better than he was. I don't see any reason we can’t go see him.”

After a brief exchange with the other Dalish woman, who still hadn’t moved from the cart, Merrill trailed Varric and Fenris back up the stairs. The whole way, she peppered them with questions about Hawke. When Varric admitted just how close a call it had been, her round eyes grew bright with tears.

Fenris' gut churned with apprehension as they wound their way back up to the rooms overlooking the garden. His life felt like a castle of sand, crumbled before the waves each time he began to rebuild it.

Hawke was asleep – truly asleep, this time, lying half-curled up on his side – his colour far better, his breathing soft and quiet. Fenris felt his legs go shaky beneath him, and he had to lean against the bedframe. He hadn’t realised just how concerned he had remained. He would have gladly taken Hawke's suffering on himself, over having to bear witness to it.

“Oh, Creators, Hawke,” Merrill said softly, approaching the bed. “He looks so much thinner.” She was gnawing on her bottom lip again, on the verge of tears.

“Cole tried to explain it, but you know I was never great with this stuff. Magic and the Fade and dwarves… we don’t really mix, you know?” Varric rubbed the flat of his palm on his forehead. “Something about the spirit being damaged, so it couldn’t fully cross over, and whatever it was doing to keep Hawke alive in the Fade was causing more harm than good here." He raised his eyebrows, dropping his hand wearily. "I don’t really know, but, Cole managed to stop it, or at least, we think he did. Now we just wait and see what happens when he wakes up.”

Merrill carefully pulled the blankets up, tucking them more firmly around Hawke. When she straightened, she wrapped her arms around herself, still watching Hawke's sleeping face sadly.

“Ah, ser?” came a soft voice from beside Fenris’ elbow. The nurse attending on Hawke today was a city elf with silver streaks in his dark hair and a spotless apron. “Ellie asked me to be sure to tell you that our patient has had some water, and broth. We feel he has turned the corner.”

Fenris nodded distractedly, eyes still on Hawke’s sleeping form. “Thank you.” He blew out a slow breath, hunching over the bed head. “Thank the Maker,” he murmured. He knew things were far from certain, yet, but having been so sure the previous day would be Hawke’s last he felt as though there was already plenty to be grateful for.

Chapter Text

They sat with Hawke for a while, speaking in an undertone about the events of the previous week. Merrill listened with eyes like saucers to the truth of how close Hawke had been to death, and to Varric’s account of the Fade creature. Fenris let the others do most of the talking, watching Hawke as though he could will the man into wakefulness.

Eventually Varric sighed and leaned back slightly in his chair, looking across at the bed once more. “It will be soon, Fenris. I’m sure of it.” He smiled. “If I believe in nothing else, I believe in Garrett Hawke.”

Fenris envied that easy confidence. Once, perhaps, he would have felt similarly, but even before the news of Hawke’s ‘death’ his faith had been shaken. Nothing seemed as simple as it once had.

Whatever happens, I hope we’ll be together.

Fenris realised his jaw was clenched, his grip tight on the arm of his chair, and forced himself to relax.

Just then, Merrill glanced at the cross-pane window and started visibly. “Is that… snow?” she asked, already rising from her chair. “I brought some things from Kirkwall… I should really get them inside.”

Fenris was reluctant to leave – he did not want Hawke to wake without a familiar face nearby – but followed regardless. The snowfall was only just enough to be called such, but the scant dusting of flakes was carried by a sudden gusty, battering wind that was little impeded by the fortress walls. By the time they got back down to the cart, one corner of the canvas covering had already been pulled loose, and the whole thing rippled when the gusts caught it as though it was a living thing trying to free itself.

“You mentioned there’s a library, Varric,” Merrill said, her voice raised shrilly over the wind as she heaved a parcel off the back of the cart.

“Sure – anywhere, so long as it’s out of the wind,” he called back, hefting one package under each arm. He led the way up to main door of the keep, the others close behind him. The wind was fierce enough that Merrill staggered in the face of it as they fought their way up the steps, and Fenris grabbed one narrow arm to steady her.

It took them and a few hastily gathered volunteers several trips back and forth; Fenris’ cloak and hair were damp with melting snowflakes by the time all of Merrill’s cargo was stacked up inside the library door. There were almost a dozen of the packages, wrapped in dark-brown wax paper and string, as well as a few storage chests and a covered wooden crate so large it took Fenris and a particularly well muscled assistant blacksmith to move it. Finally, Fenris put the final piece of cargo down with the rest. This was an elaborately worked metal box, shaped like a square pyramid. The surface was bronze, dulled with age and showing a misty-green patina in parts. He leaned down to inspect the carving more closely, then jerked back when he realised what he was looking at; the centre of the design depicted casting mages, hands wreathed in flame, while the ‘floor’ beneath their feet was formed of interlocking bodies. It would not have been out of place in Danarius’ workrooms; Fenris turned away from it, scowling.

“I’d say I was sorry to have missed the spirit if it were anyone but Hawke,” Merrill was saying as she and Varric manoeuvred the final, and bulkiest item, through the doorway. In stark contrast to how ornate the other boxes were, this was a perfectly nondescript wooden crate. They set the crate down on the floor with the rest, and she shook out her wrists with a wince. “But I wouldn’t have liked seeing him like that.” She bustled across to the haphazard stack of parcels they had carted in and set to work untying one. “I would like to meet your friend Cole though, Varric.”

“I doubt you could avoid that if you wanted to.” Varric ran one broad hand over the metal box Fenris had just moved away from. “What is all of this stuff, Daisy?”

“Books, mostly,” she said. She opened the first package’s paper covering to reveal a stack of heavy tomes, their leather bindings worn and pages darkened with use.

“Is that… dragon hide?” Varric moved across to pick up the topmost volume, his brow furrowing as he examined the spine. “Did this come from the Gallows?”

Merrill nodded. “Yes, well, straight after the templars headed off south, I had a little look. People seemed afraid to go there, at first, but I thought surely it wouldn’t be long before it all got taken one way or another.” She unwrapped a second parcel as she spoke, and carefully straightened the books in the stack. “It was such a mess – and you know how particular templars usually are! I never thought it could be worse than it was after that awful battle with the mages.” She paused, hands resting on the book in front of her for a moment; then she breathed a tiny sigh, and returned to her task. “I got some of the elves from the alienage to help me bring back what looked most interesting - what wasn't ruined, anyway. I don’t really have room in my little place to stow it all, but then you told me about the library here and I just thought maybe this would be a better home for them.” She smiled up at Varric briefly. “I did keep the sending crystal though. Kirkwall gets in too much trouble not to have some way of getting in touch quickly when we need to.”

Dorian had approached from his usual corner, head cocked in interest, and he darted forward with a slightly strangled noise when he caught sight of the book Varric was holding. “Is that… it couldn’t be. May I?” he held out his hands, and Varric passed it over. Dorian opened the cover reverently, inspecting the text as he shook his head in wonder. “This is… the original of Mareno’s Dissertation on the Fade as a Physical Manifestation…” He peered at the rest of the assembled books as Merrill carried on unwrapping, then let out an audible gasp. He clasped the first tome to his chest as he darted forward. “Dracona Viridis,” he murmured, his free hand hovering over a battered volume as though hesitant to physically handle it. “The chair of history at the Vyrantium circle taught that it was destroyed – there’s not even an intact copy in Tevinter, not that we know of.”

Merrill beamed across at him. “It sounds like someone will take good care of them, then.”

“Where in Thedas did you find all of this?” Dorian demanded, setting down the first volume with great care before he began to pick over the rest of the collection with shaking fingers. “Ah – the Liberalum, of course. After all we went through to obtain our copy, another just shows up here unannounced?”

“Most of them were in a restricted room in the Gallows library,” Merrill explained, craning forward as she picked at the knot on the final parcel. “The Templars had left it alone, but the wards were actually not that complicated and Hawke taught me how to pick locks.”

“Wait.” Dorian’s face turned up to look at her, aghast. “Don’t tell me you carried all of these up a mountain… in a cart?”

“Okay, I won’t,” Merrill said earnestly.

“And you took a ship from Kirkwall?” He covered his eyes with one hand.

“Oh, it was a fishing boat, really. The harbour’s still not back to what it was. Ah, got it,” she murmured as she finally pulled the knot open. Fenris noticed Dorian surreptitiously sniff the book in his hands, with a considering frown.

Merrill dusted off the metal box and opened it without ceremony; it proved to hold an array of arcane objects that could have come straight from the Black Emporium – crystals, potions, runes. The wooden crate held at least a dozen staves, all ornately worked and finished with blades and crystals that seemed to signify more than mere metal and stone.

Merrill drew one of the staves from the crate, carved from dark wood that had perhaps once been a tree root, its branching end fashioned into three dragon heads. Fenris was startled to realise he recognised it; the First Enchanter, the fool that had let blood magic consume him, had borne such a staff. “After everything that happened, well…” Her face fell as she spoke, her slim white hand smoothing over the bowed head of one dragon. “There are few enough mages left in Kirkwall, now, and it’s not really safe to leave these sorts of things laying around for just anyone to get a hold of. I know the Inquisitor allied with the southern mages, here, so I thought perhaps you might use them.”

Dorian whistled softly as he looked over the items. “This is all… unspeakably generous, really. It may be the single most significant donation to our arcane resources we’ve received. Are you quite sure about this? It may not be in our best interest for me to say so, but on the open market you could get a prince’s ransom.”

“Oh, I don’t want gold.” Merrill smiled weakly, but her eyes were sad as she met Dorian’s. “I just want to know it will be looked after. Please do take them. It will be years before the young ones are ready for any of this.”

Dorian looked at her for a long moment, still frowning, then executed a particularly low and extravagant bow. “I thank you, then. I will ensure personally that we treat all you have entrusted to us with the utmost care. And perhaps…” he cocked his head thoughtfully. “Perhaps between the Inquisition, and Varric and yourself, we could arrange to establish a school of magic in Kirkwall for these ‘young ones’. Something far removed from your southern Circles.”

Fenris left the others to their talk and walked back towards Hawke’s room by himself, drawing his cloak tightly around himself against the wind. He was relieved to put some distance between himself and that collection, as well as their enthusiastic discussion of mage education. He knew that mages needed training, and Kirkwall’s increased rate of magically gifted births had always put it at a higher risk of incidents involving accidental destruction, or even possession. Still, he was far from comfortable with the concept of a magic ‘school’ that existed without the rigorous supervision of templars.

He let himself back into the room.

There were two nurses present now, the elf and an older human woman, speaking in hushed voices as they leaned over the sheaf of notes at the worktable. They spared him a smile and a nod before they returned to their conversation.

It was almost too warm, after the bite of the wind outside, and Fenris worked open the clasp at the throat of his cloak until he could shrug it off before he dropped into the chair beside the bed. Hawke’s back was to him, his dark hair sleep-mussed above the crumpled collar of his shirt. Fenris felt the distant urge to crawl into the bed beside him, like he would once have done – but too much had changed since those days.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bed, and dropped his forehead against his hands.

Fenris was weary, grimy with dust and old sweat. He heaved his sword from his back, leaning it against the wall in the entry way, then he paused, waiting for the inevitable thunder of massive paws as Hawke’s mabari realised he had returned. But no sound came from within the house. He walked forwards into the main living room, and found Maggie curled up on her mat near the fire. She lifted her head when she saw him, but didn’t make any move to get up and tackle him to the floor as she usually would. Instead, she whined softly as Fenris crouched down beside her. “What is the matter?” he asked, scratching behind one of her ears.

“Ah – Master Fenris.” Bodahn hovered in the doorway near the study. “I trust your journey was a successful one.”

Fenris shrugged. “Yes.” He picked at a dark spot beneath one joint of his gauntlet – old blood. It had taken work to track down the head of the slaver cell operating out of Ostwick, but Fenris had his wolf-namesake’s tenacity. “Hawke isn’t here?”

Maggie put her head back down on the edge of her mat, her eyes forlorn as she stared up at him.

“Ah, no – actually, he asked me to give this to you.” Bodahn held out a folded slip of paper.

Dread hit Fenris, then. Something was definitely wrong, for Hawke to leave him a note. Wordlessly, he took the paper and unfolded it. The writing was Hawke’s: written larger and more carefully than usual, written for someone who still did not read well. Fenris’ lips formed the shape of the words as he read. The message was brief – things with the templars had got out of hand, Hawke had a lead on why, one he had to take. He didn't know when he'd be back; Fenris should be careful. It ended with ‘I’m sorry’.

Bodahn had knelt down beside the dog, offering her a bit of something from one pocket, but she only whined once more.

Fenris was jostled awake by a commotion beside him; someone brushed past, and there was a voice. As he lifted his head, squinting against the pale dawn light, he realised what was going on and snapped fully awake so quickly he was on his feet before he knew what had happened.

He had fallen asleep hunched against Hawke’s bed. The human nurse stood beside him, holding out a cup of water so that Hawke – Hawke, eyes cracked open, leaning up on one elbow – could drink.

Those familiar eyes stayed fixed on Fenris even as he gulped the water. “Slowly,” the nurse cautioned, drawing back slightly. Hawke followed her movement, and water ran spilled down his chin to drip over the scar at his chest.

Fenris stayed where he was, hardly breathing, as though one wrong movement and it would all end once more.

When the cup was empty, the nurse moved away for a moment, and Hawke dropped back against the pillows with a sigh. His gaze found Fenris’ once more. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

The sound of that familiar Ferelden baritone, even hoarse with disuse, was such a relief that Fenris’ legs threatened to give way beneath him. “It came – much too close,” he managed. “But I am glad to see you awake.”

The nurse checked Hawke over, peering in Hawke’s eyes and listening to his breathing. He and Fenris just looked at one another.

Finally the nurse squeezed Hawke’s shoulder, smiling as she promised to be back soon, and hurried from the room.

Hawke turned his head slightly on the pillow, his eyes sliding away towards the thin light that shone through the cross-paned window. “This is Skyhold?” he asked.

“Yes.” Such questions at least, were easy. Facts were easier than feelings; they could not be conflicted.

Then Hawke’s expression wavered, confusion bringing his brows together. “I don’t understand how this is possible. I don’t remember much, not after that… nightmare… thing.” His mouth twisted wryly. “But I know I didn’t win that fight.” He lifted a hand towards his chest, but it stopped several inches away and balled into a fist. “How did I get here?” He spoke slowly, his voice still rasping somewhat, and stopped to breathe more often than was normal.

Fenris stepped closer to the bed, his own chest tight. “You… came through a Fade rift. It seems a spirit helped you to survive the Fade, somehow. Sealed your wound.”

“A spirit?” Hawke’s eyes widened. “That doesn’t sound so good.”

“It has gone. It is fortunate the Inquisitor has a spirit of his own who could communicate with it.” Fenris grimaced at the idea of Cole’s presence being ‘fortunate’, but there was nothing for it.

Hawke was frowning, watching him, and then he asked quietly: “How long has it been?”

Fenris hesitated, though he wasn’t sure why. “Six months, in the Fade.” Hawke’s face slackened in shock, and Fenris went on softly: “It has been almost a year since you left me that note.” It was impossible to keep the underlying bitterness out of his voice when he spoke.

“It couldn't be... it's that long?" Hawke breathed, and regret bloomed fully across his features, still so handsome despite his thinned cheeks and ragged stubble. He squeezed his amber eyes shut, wincing as if in pain, but then they opened again just as quickly. “I should never have left you like that.” He dropped his hand to the bed once more, stretching it out towards Fenris as he leaned his dark head against the pillow.

Fenris took it; it was more natural than breathing. Hawke’s familiar hand, larger than Fenris’ and with the same fighter’s calluses, warm beneath his own. Fenris took in a deep breath through his nostrils and placed his other hand over so that he held Hawke’s between them. Hawke was not a religious man, so Fenris only thought it: thank you, Maker, for sending him back.

Then the door crashed open, and Varric was there – barefoot, in only his shirt and breeches – and Merrill was right behind him, tears already standing in her eyes.

Fenris moved back away from the bed as they crowded in, and somehow it was almost a relief.

He watched Hawke fold Merrill into a hug, and laugh at Varric’s incredulous commentary of the whole situation, and he was relieved, amazed, gratified beyond measure – but there was something bittersweet in it. His throat was constricted, his eyes felt hot, and if he didn’t know how many years it had been since he had cried – he might have thought himself perilously close to it.

Chapter Text

“Hawke, stop fidgeting,” Dorian said tersely, not for the first time.

The big Fereldan sighed dramatically, relaxing back against the mattress beneath him. “You have such unrealistic expectations of me,” he complained with a wink.

“Well, by all means, go right ahead. It’s not as though you’ve been in another plane of existence for six months, or emerged incoherent and glowing.” Dorian grated. “I can’t imagine why I thought I might need to check you over.”

“Easy, Sparkler,” Varric said from where he leaned against the top of the bed’s carved wooden footboard. “He knows.”

“Well, you have to admit it does all sound pretty unlikely,” Hawke said, but the smile on his face seemed as forced as the light tone, and did a poor job of masking the tension beneath it. He glanced down towards his open shirt, but his gaze flicked away again just as quickly.

Fenris, leaning against the wall beside the bedhead with his arms folded, glared at Dorian.

“I’m sorry,” said Dorian, and he did sound it. “But it is important – I’m trying to get a sense of what’s happening in there.” He held his hands over Hawke’s chest once more, eyes half-closed as a channel of soft green light flowed out into the air between them and into Hawke’s chest. And the Champion did lie still then, finally, aside from the steady motion of his breath.

Merrill, standing at Dorian’s shoulder, peered in to watch him work. Her head tilted slowly to the side, as though she were listening to some faint music the others could not hear.

Fenris did not have the same reluctance as Hawke to look at the scar, anymore – he had seen it enough times by now that he felt none of the shock he had at first. And he thought, if anything, it looked better than it once had – the colour seemed less livid, the surface flatter against Hawke’s chest.

Dorian’s eyebrows lifted and he tipped his head forward, his eyes fully closing. He frowned, turning his head sideways as he concentrated.

Hawke frowned at the sight. “What?” All pretense at levity was gone, his golden-brown eyes wary.

“There is, well… both good and bad news.” The green light faded, and Dorian drew his hands back. He rubbed at his chin with the pad of his thumb, still frowning. “The good news is that there is some degree of improvement. There was some suggestion that the spirit was preventing physical change… if that is the case, then perhaps natural healing was suspended in some way…”

Hawke blinked back at Dorian as the mage mused to himself. “So, if I’m getting better on my own, what is the bad news?”

Dorian dropped his hands back into his lap, and finally looked up from Hawke’s chest to meet the Champion’s gaze. “I must be honest. Improvement is a relative thing. Creation is not my specialty, but even I can tell that your heart and lungs are still significantly scarred. If we can’t find a way to help, there will be – a permanent deficit.”

“Deficit…?” Hawke repeated. He seemed impressively calm – calmer than Fenris would have been, under the circumstances.

“You will likely tire more easily, get short of breath, be prone to coughs and chest pain – you will need a lot of rest.” Dorian looked down. “It will be a… significant change.” It was an indirect way of saying it, but the meaning was clear enough: if they couldn’t find a way to heal him, properly, Hawke’s adventuring days were over.

Hawke frowned as he lay back against his pillows, silent. He had always been so vital and irrepressible, always busy sticking his nose into problems no-one else could solve, and sticking his neck out to offer aid to every wronged party they met. Fenris couldn’t even imagine Hawke resting, not while conscious. In the months they had lived together, he couldn’t remember a time Hawke had done anything that could be described as restful, unless he was actually asleep.

Merrill moved across quietly to sit on the bed beside Hawke, taking his hand in hers. “Even champions need to rest sometimes,” she said in her lilting voice.

Fenris thought, belatedly, that he should have been the one to comfort Hawke. Then he remembered how useless his attempts had been after Leandra’s murder. Perhaps it was better if he let Merrill. For all her faults, she had none of his awkwardness when it came to the feelings of others.

Hawke looked at her and drew in a shaky breath. “Well, it has to be marginally better than being trapped in the fade.”

“Or being dead,” Varric put in.

“Or that.”

Dorian leaned forward where he sat. “And it may yet be improved upon somewhat. We are far from having exhausted all possibilities to find assistance,” he insisted. “We have mages, researchers, alchemists, surgeons; if there’s a way to mitigate the impact, we’ll find it.”

“Well, I’ll be cheering you on,” Hawke said, though his resigned expression suggested he had little confidence in their quest for a miraculous cure. “Let’s hope someone has a pinch of Andraste’s ashes in the pocket of an old cloak, or something.”

There was a brisk knock at the door, and then it swung open. The voice of Beatrix, the nurse, preceded the woman herself by an instant: “Apologies, your Worship, it’s going to be a little crowded.”

She came into view, and with her was Revem, simply dressed and with his russet hair now pulled straight back and bound with a leather tie. The simpler hairstyle drew attention to his pointed ears and the pale vallaslin that traced his cheekbones, and made him look somehow even younger.

The Inquisitor moved with purpose towards the bed, and Dorian stepped aside to give him room. Hawke shuffled a little higher on his pillows, until he was the closest he’d yet been to sitting upright. He inclined his head. “Inquisitor.”

But the slight elf did not stand on ceremony. He stepped forward, bracing one knee on the bed, and hugged Hawke with almost the same fervour Merrill had. Hawke’s eyes widened, holding his arms out either side of Revem’s slender torso before he finally smiled helplessly and hugged the Inquisitor in return.

When Revem drew away, his eyes were wet and his mouth trembled. “I – it is incredible.” He shook his head as he smoothed his tunic down. “To leave you behind was one of the hardest things I had to do throughout that whole miserable war. To see you fall. I thought I would never get a chance to tell you how sorry I was, and how grateful.”

Hawke looked away, the smile dimming but not disappearing entirely. “It was… well, I can’t say it was nothing. But…” he nodded to himself, looking around the room. “It was worth it. Scuttling Corypheus’ demon army, well, that went a long way to winning your war. If you hadn't won, that was it for all of us.” He relaxed back into his pillows.

Fenris watched him, listened to him, and he knew – as he always had – that Hawke was a hero. He was larger than life, a true Champion. Helping and protecting people came as naturally to him as dispatching slave hunters came to Fenris.

Fenris looked around the room, at all of those present, who may not have been if Hawke had not been willing to make that sacrifice.

But Hawke had made it alone. As much as he said he loved Fenris, in the end, he had made his decision and chosen his course of action, and Fenris had been denied even the chance to follow.

Someone cleared their throat by the door, and it was only then that Fenris realised who Revem had brought with him; Cullen stood there. When Fenris’ eyes went to him, the Commander nodded in greeting. He smiled, but he looked tired.

Cullen stepped forward. Fenris wasn’t sure if he imagined the sudden awkwardness in the room, the shifting of weight and flicker of uncertain glances. Of those present, only Merrill – and Hawke, of course – did not know what had passed between the Inquisition’s Commander and Fenris.

Cullen brought his right hand up to his chest and bowed deeply. “Hawke. I can hardly believe it.” When he straightened, his expression was a strange mixture of relief and regret. “I have thought over the events of the Battle of Adamant, many times, wondering what I could have changed to prevent what happened. I can only apologise for not having found a way that day.”

Hawke waved a hand dismissively, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Nonsense. We won, didn’t we?” He turned his hand palm up, holding it out in a gesture of inquiry. “If you and your troops hadn’t done as well as you did, we might never have gotten the chance to stop that Erimond bastard at all.” He let the hand fall back to the bed. “If I had a silver for every time I’ve thought of the day the Chantry was destroyed – and all that came afterwards – and wondered what I could have done differently, well… honestly, I’d probably just have drunk a lot more ale. That kind of victory is never without cost; you must know that, Commander.”

Cullen managed to return a tiny smile of his own, though it could not fully banish the sadness from his features. “I am relieved – beyond words – to see you recovering, Champion.”

Hawke huffed out a silent laugh. “Doesn’t sound like I’m going to be doing much worthy of that title, anymore. Not sure what I can do to protect Kirkwall from my bed.” He was grinning as he closed his eyes, but Fenris caught the dismayed twist of his lip that turned it into a grimace before Hawke scrubbed a hand over his face.

Revem stepped towards the bed again. “It’s not hopeless, Hawke.” He reached out a hand to lay it carefully on the Champion's broad shoulder. “You’ve already achieved the impossible once this month. I have a feeling you’ll find a way to prove any prediction wrong.”

As clear as he made his distate for rest, Hawke’s body gave him little choice in the matter. The quiet discussion of potential sources of assistance soon had to be adjourned when they realised the Champion had fallen asleep propped up against his pillows. Fenris helped the nurse ease him down onto the mattress – when Hawke shifted and murmured as he was moved, Fenris couldn’t help but feel relief at the signs of natural sleep. He was sure that scenes of Hawke near-death and burning alive with fever would be a new feature of his nightmares.

He trailed the others out onto the landing and leaned against the stone balustrade, feeling exhausted again. Varric casually stepped into the spot beside him, giving Fenris an appraising look. “Have you eaten yet today, Broody?” Varric asked, and rolled his eyes when Fenris only shrugged. “You should really get on that – you know it’s the middle of the afternoon, right? Go get some fresh air while you’re at it, maybe a nap.”

Fenris stared steadily down into the garden, where the first brilliant green spring shoots were beginning to emerge from the slushy soil. “I should stay.”

“Fenris. You need to look after yourself, too.” He squinted up at the elf again. “There’s only so many meals you can skip before Cullen and I will have to start feeding you again.”

Fenris’ eyes slid across to where Cullen stood beside the Inquisitor, looking on as Merrill talked animatedly at Dorian. He let his head drop a fraction lower, looking down at his lyrium-lined arms braced against the stone before him. “Fine. I do not wish to give anyone cause for concern.”

Varric turned his head briefly towards the others, then subtly angled his body so that his elbow was against the balustrade instead of his back. When he spoke, it was in a low murmur – for Fenris’ ears alone. “Have you told Hawke, yet – that there’s someone else?”

Fenris’ eyes flickered back to Cullen, only for a moment. “There… is not, anymore. Hawke does not need this to add to his concerns.”

“Fenris…” Varric sighed. “Hawke won’t expect you to act like the last year never happened. He left, bad things happened, eventually you moved on; there’s no shame in that. And things don't magically get better in a relationship because one of you nearly died. In the end, you have to decide what you want.” He paused, gnawing at his bottom lip. “At least talk to him. To both of them – Cullen’s a friend, too, and just as good as someone else I won’t mention at squashing down anything resembling a feeling.”

Fenris looked out into the garden again, forcing his eyes to stay on the new spring growth in the garden as the others moved away.

It was easy to say it, but it was another thing entirely to untangle. Fenris was bad enough at understanding his own feelings and impulses, most of the time. How could he be expected to navigate those of two others? How could he separate the desire to help and protect Hawke – especially now – from what he truly wanted, himself?

He shoved the stray wisps of hair back from his face, letting out a frustrated noise, and all at once wished the garden were cloaked in snow and ice once more.

Cullen permitted himself one glance back, but Fenris was in soft conversation with Varric and didn’t look up.

Just as well, really. At this point, Cullen was only torturing himself – whatever they’d had, it was done.

He walked beside Dorian, at Revem’s back, while the Inquisitor conferred with one of Skyhold’s runners. “Could you please ask Elan Ve’mal to meet me in the library in an hour – we need her expertise on alchemy.” The runner raced off ahead towards the stairs, and Revem looked back at them with an apologetic shrug. “I would like to check in at the mage tower, if you don’t mind. Fiona said she would be sending someone as soon as possible, but I haven’t heard anything further. We need a creation mage, and soon. I’m sure there’s a lot to manage at the Spire right now, but I have to make sure it’s a priority.” He tapped his hand impatiently against his thigh as he led the way, down the various flights of stairs that took them outside and into the upper courtyard, then across the slush and dirt just starting to show the first signs of the grass’ tentative return.

The keep hummed with activity. The steady stream of returning and new Inquisition members seemed to be only growing as the days went by, and alongside came an increasing number of traders, diplomats and visitors. Even as they passed, a chevalier in mirror-bright armour rode a glossy black warhorse through the open gates, where some Inquisition guards were already attending to a travel-weary group of dwarves with a bronto and laden wagon.

The Inquisitor and Cullen, and to a lesser extent Dorian, nodded and smiled their way towards the mage tower perched on the battlements above them. Servants chattered as they wrung out laundry and aired carpets in the spring sunshine, and messengers darted intently around them. The practice yards were crowded with soldiers going through their drills with renewed vigour, the air filled with the thunk of wood on wood, shouted protests and encouragement, and the squelch of boots churning the damp earth into mud. There was clang of blacksmith hammers and the hiss of blades being quenched in the smithy, and below all of it the buzz of conversation from the open door of the Herald’s Rest.

Despite himself, and despite the fact that the noise did little for the steady pulsing ache in his skull, Cullen found his mood lifting as he looked at it all: Skyhold, and the Inquisition, felt alive again. Though Corypheus may have been vanquished, there was endless work to do all over Thedas to repair the damage he had done. While the Inquisition thrived, Cullen had a purpose to ground him no matter what striking green-eyed elves appeared to shake up his carefully ordered existence.

They took the stairs beside the infirmary and up to the main door of the tower. It was sparsely occupied, in stark contrast to the courtyard below: there were only two mages on the main floor, sat together beside one of the tables with a sample of glittering powder spread carefully on a pane of glass before them. Many of the mages who had once been part of the Inquisition had officially joined the College of Enchanters. For now, it operated much like the Circles once had – although of course, without the Templars. Southern society was still ill-used to the presence of mages at large in the world, and their freedom still had significant – and vocal – opposition; there was safety in numbers.

Cullen stayed respectfully quiet, here. Whatever they may have thought of him now, most of the mages knew he had once advocated the Rite of Annulment at Lake Calenhad, knew that he had been second-in-command when they went that final step further at the Gallows. Dorian, somehow, did not hold Cullen’s history against him, but he could not expect that from the southern mages who had lived so long under Templar guard.

In the uppermost room, a young female mage sat watching over the sending crystal as she perused a thick volume of notes, her reddish-brown hair woven into twin braids that made her look even younger. She glanced up when they entered and scrambled to her feet, bowing hastily. “Good day, your Worship.”

Revem smiled warmly at her. “Excuse the interruption. I need to send a message to the White Spire – assuming they still haven’t tried to contact us?”

“No, Your Worship,” the girl confirmed. “We’ve heard nothing.”

“Please, don’t let me interrupt your work,” the Inquisitor said, gesturing towards another chair nearby as he took the one the girl had just vacated.

“Thank you, Your Worship,” she mumbled. She sat down where he had indicated, her book in her lap, but Cullen noticed she didn’t return to her reading; her attention was fixed on the proceedings.

The sending crystal had been brought to Skyhold when the Inquisition had rescued the mage refuges from the College of Magi in Cumberland, and it was a particularly fine example. Someone unfamiliar with magical devices might have – at a glance – thought it simply a looking glass, if an uncommonly ornate one. But even without the lyrium to amplify his templar abilities, the enchantments over it were so strong Cullen could all but see the magic rolling off it.

The glass surface was perfectly round, held within a bronze openwork frame in a Nevarran style – teardrop-shaped perforations formed patterns that resembled flowers around the mirror’s edge. But instead of reflecting the room before it, the mirror was clouded over; a pale mist covered its surface, as though condensation had somehow formed beneath it. On close inspection, the mist was moving slightly, like clouds drifting across the sky.

The crystal itself was a transparent half-sphere no bigger around than a sovereign, set into the base of the frame. Inlaid into the pattern below it were smaller fragments in a range of hues – each a part of another sending crystal held elsewhere in Thedas. Most sending crystals permitted only the transmission of voices, but this particular device gave some limited vision of the other party as well.

Revem placed one hand over the crystal, the other making contact with a sliver of rose-pink dawnstone which had the name of the White Spire etched in minute script beneath it. He closed his eyes as he concentrated, his breath becoming slow and even.

The Anchor flared into life; though the enchantment was self-contained, and the user did not have to possess magic, the Anchor remained sensitive as ever to the flow of power in the air. Cullen was almost surprised it hadn’t become active simply by proximity as soon as they entered the room. The crystal gleamed a steady blue, and the green light of the anchor bled into it.

The formless white clouding the mirror’s surface shifted and eddied, swirling in an aimless pattern. There was a faint sound, half-hum, half-whine, so soft it took Cullen a moment to decide he was really hearing it and it wasn’t just some odd manifestation of his headache.

Finally, the mist began to take form. The shape sharpened and resolved itself into the ghostly outline of what appeared to be a human male, peering out of the glass at them. “We greet you, Skyhold,” he said formally, his voice clear enough that it was almost as though he was in the same room with them. He spoke with the clipped tones of an Orlesian born and bred in Val Royeaux. “Is that the Inquisitor?”

“It is,” Revem confirmed, opening his eyes to look at the ghostly figure within the mirror. “I seek another conference with Grand Enchanter Fiona.”

“I believe she has been expecting it, Your Worship.” There was the scrape of a chair and the man’s face became indistinct as he moved away from the mirror and crystal. “I think she will make herself free regardless of what she may be attending to. I will return momentarily.”

They heard his footsteps recede.

“Fiona has been expecting you to contact her?” Dorian mused. “Weren’t you waiting for the reverse?”

“That’s what I thought.” Revem shifted in his seat, blue eyes alert as he watched the mirror.

The mirror’s surface showed only mist again for a time, swirling rapidly now like water in a stream. But soon enough, it shifted again to form a new image. When it was done, it showed a ghostly impression of Grand Enchanter Fiona’s familiar face and neatly cropped hair. “Inquisitor. I regret that my duties have kept me from contacting you sooner.”

“I am not taking you away from something important, am I?” Revem asked.

“Not more important than ensuring our assistance has been of use,” she said, rather cryptically.

“My apologies, Fiona, I am not sure what assistance you mean… ?” Revem leaned forward in his seat, adjusting the position of his elbows so he could rest more comfortably on them without losing contact with the crystals. “Did you locate someone who might help?”

Her confused frown was marked enough that it was obvious even through the indistinct image of her.

“Yes, Inquisitor, he… departed for Skyhold the day we first spoke,” she said. “Whatever Hawke’s former sympathies, we understand well the part he played in Corypheus’ defeat. And we do not take such a request from you lightly.” She leaned closer towards the glass. “There has been no sign of him?”

“No, not as yet,” Revem confirmed. “How was he travelling?”

Cullen turned over the distance in his head. It was not yet so dire as Fiona’s sudden alarm suggested. Assuming Revem had reached Skyhold as quickly as he’d planned to, it had been perhaps a week since the call for help had gone out to the mages. It was six days to Orlais, in good weather – it could be done in less if the travellers were pushing their horses hard, or had taken a fast ship to Jader. But it could easily take more, also.

“They took a boat south across the bay, then they were to travel on the Imperial Highway until the Frostbacks. They reached Lydes in good time – we had a message by bird – but I have heard nothing further.”

“They?” Dorian stepped up to Revem’s shoulder. “How many mages were in this contingent?”

“One,” Fiona admitted. “His companion is not a mage, but a Dalish warrior – they travelled together for some years before the Mage-Templar War, researching elvhen artefacts.” She sighed and shook her head. “I told Finn they should have taken a more substantial escort, but he was adamant that guards would only slow them down.”

“Wait – Finn?” Cullen cut in. “The... bookworm the other apprentices called Flora?” He remembered a gangly youth with dark auburn hair, a know-it-all air and a squeamish disposition.

“I believe he was harrowed at Kinloch Hold, yes,” Fiona said, managing a tense smile. “I would wager he is not quite the ‘bookworm’ you recall, anymore.”

“It has only been a week,” Revem said thoughtfully, echoing Cullen’s earlier thoughts. “The mountains are still hard going, at this time of year.”

Cullen was looking at the pale impression of Fiona, and the tension written clearly across her features. “There is something else, isn’t there?” he asked slowly. “For you to be this concerned.”

Fiona hesitated, and she almost looked like she was about to deny it. But then she gave the barest of nods. “Yes, you are right, Commander. It is perhaps not my place to reveal the specifics, but you may need to know at least some of it.” She squared her narrow shoulders. “Senior Enchanter Finn – like so very many of my fellows – suffered at the hands of the rogue templars during the war. Afterwards, he and Ariane stayed with her clan until the College of Enchanters was reformed, when they joined us here. He is an experienced traveller, a powerful mage, and brave…” she looked steadily at the Inquisitor, the set of her face grim, “but such injury may take longer to heal than the physical wounds left.”

As Cullen listened to her words, he felt his stomach sink. It was a story he had heard many times – too many. He had believed in the Order, and in their duty, but the events of the war had forced into stark relief the fact that so many of his brothers and sisters were fuelled only by hatred.

Revem nodded his sympathies, before his face took on a determined set. “If he is not here by morning, Fiona, we will send out a search party. We will find him, Grand Enchanter, I guarantee it.”

Fiona nodded tightly. “Thank you, Inquisitor. We will scry from our end – we may be able to get some impression of his state that your people can use to aid their search.” She leaned back, further from the mirror, her whitened features growing less distinct. “I never thought, before all of this, that I would have cause to wish that we still retained the store of phylacteries. I cannot pretend I miss any of what they represented, despite the cost, but so many mages are still unaccounted for.” She closed her eyes. “Even with all the Inquisition has achieved, Thedas remains – inhospitable – for our kind.” Then her eyes snapped open again with a new alertness. “What of Hawke? Will – how is his condition?”

Revem shrugged his shoulders, the movement slightly awkward with the way his hands were placed on the crystals. “He appears stable. But it is impossible to be sure.” His expression firmed into determination. “It is one more reason to ensure Senior Enchanter Finn reaches us safely.”

Chapter Text

Fenris hunched over the usual table upstairs in the Herald’s Rest, working his way methodically through a simple meal of spiced rice and vegetables. He had been hungry, but after a few bites his appetite had faded against the knot of tension in his gut. Still, there were few former slaves who would willingly waste food.

The tavern around him was busy, most of the tables crowded, but the patrons seemed to understand he should be left alone.

He felt – he wasn’t sure what he felt, honestly. Not the way he might have expected. He thought of what Varric had said, and what he still felt when he saw Cullen, and tried to make sense of his own reaction when he saw Hawke awake once more. He was still deep in thought, probing at his sense of unease like he would a bad tooth, when someone cleared their throat delicately beside him.

Knight-Captain Briony stood there, her lovely face solemn. He pushed his dish away and leaned back from the table to watch her, cautious; after their confrontation in the Hinterlands, he hadn’t expected her to speak with him again.

“Fenris.” Her eyes slid away from his as she cleared her throat again. “I feel I must apologise. I made a mistake, that day with Hawke. No matter how many times the Order is shown to have erred, it is hard to go against my training.” The corners of her full lips turned down in a pensive frown.

Fenris could perhaps understand that better than she may have expected. It had taken years of freedom before he could discard, fully, the habits slavery had ingrained in him. Even when he finally saw Danarius again, the hatred boiling through him was accompanied by a thin thread of duty that demanded he drop to his knees and beg forgiveness of his master.

“If it had been anyone but Hawke, I would have agreed with you.” A cold shiver went up his back at the idea, and there was an answering sympathy in her eyes.

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you didn’t.

With a final nod, she left. Fenris noticed how many eyes in the busy tavern followed her tall, shapely frame with her braid of blonde hair swaying behind her. He wondered at the exchange they might have had, if she had known how close her judgement had been to the truth. He wondered what chaos a truly possessed Hawke might have wrought. It was not a pleasant thought.

But Hawke was not possessed, not lost – he was alive. Fenris would have given up his own life for this, had rued being denied that chance.

So where was the elation he should have felt? What was wrong with him, that he could face Hawke’s impossible return and feel only a weary sense of relief?

There was someone waiting for him outside the dilapidated mansion he called home once more; he could not bring himself to stay at the Amell estate with Hawke gone. The stranger wore an unfamiliar garb of leather and dyed green wool, his hood pulled up firmly over his head and his boots caked in dried mud and road-dust. “Serah Fenris?”

The elf nodded, but maintained his distance, his hand rising towards the hilt of his sword.

The green-clad man made no effort to move closer, appearing relaxed even as his eyes marked the subtle threat of Fenris’ movement. “I have a message for you. You are not an easy man to find,” he remarked. “With such a description, I wasn’t expecting that to be a problem.”

Fenris raised one eyebrow: “I was out of the city for several days.” He often travelled the Wounded Coast, conducting his own patrol of the caves and secluded gulches that were all too convenient for slavers. For some months the Coast had shown no sign of them, and Fenris intended to ensure it stayed that way. He had too much experience with hunters to expect fear to keep them at bay long.

Fenris folded his arms across his chest. “Who sent you?”

“Varric Tethras – I’m with the Inquisition,” the messenger added, as though it should mean something to Fenris. He fished in the satchel at his side and extracted a slightly crumpled envelope with a thick wax seal. He smoothed it hastily before handing it over. “I was to give this directly to you.”

Fenris accepted the sealed letter, and the messenger stepped back to a respectful distance once more. As Fenris frowned down at the missive, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye; when he looked back, it was to see Guard-Captain Aveline approaching. Her face was even paler than usual, her dusting of ruddy freckles standing out against the skin, and there were shadows under her eyes.

Fenris nodded to the messenger. “My thanks.”

Aveline waited for the man to take his leave before she spoke. “Welcome back, Fenris.” Her voice was throaty, as though she were fighting off a cold. “I… don’t think you should open that here. Do you mind if I come in?”

It was no longer so strange a request as it would once have been; they were friends, closer than they had been before Hawke’s departure. He dined with Aveline and Donnic on occasion, or joined them for a card game, and helped Aveline with some of the more unusual problems brought to the guard. It was as much help for him as for her, in honesty, a distraction from the wait which had long since become unbearable.

But that was not why she had come, this time. Upstairs, Fenris read, and his chest tightened like a garrotte. Aveline had to help him decipher Varric’s heavy scrawl in parts; her eyes were over-bright as they worked through the message, but she held herself together. It was only when Fenris reached the worst part – where the tale of the battle petered out and all that remained was ‘didn't make it’ and ‘you know how Hawke was’ and ‘I’m sorry’ – and his voice cracked and failed, that Aveline had to leave her chair and turn towards the window with her head bowed.

It was days after that before Fenris was able to finish the rest of the letter. Each time he approached that part once more, to read again that the epicentre around which his life orbited had been irrevocably cut out, he couldn’t make himself go on.

Fenris placed his shaking hands carefully on the scratched and pitted surface of the table before him. He knew what the feeling he carried was, beneath all the rest.

It was anger.

We were supposed to be together, whatever happened. Why did that change as soon as danger came again for you, when our very bond was forged in danger? How could you fail to see, after how many times it was proven, how much stronger we were together? How could you decide you would not risk losing me – and so force me to lose you?

He had been left behind. The pain of that had been buried by the overwhelming grief of Hawke’s death, but it had not truly gone. After all of this, did he plan to just return with Hawke as though none of it had happened? To wait for the next time the Champion decided that something was more important than the promises they had made?

Fenris had been charmed by Hawke right from their first meeting, at a time when he believed himself incapable of being so. The Champion was impossibly charismatic, larger than life. The few months they had finally been together, properly – happy, as far as they could be in the chaos of a shattered city – had been precious, but were hard to weigh against the pain that had followed.

Even if they had been only friends, it would have stung. But they had been more, far more, and it felt – it had always felt – like a betrayal.

“Hey, you.”

Fenris glanced up to see Sera, propped up on her elbows at the railing by her corner nook. “Do I need to find some bees to put in her dresser or what?”

Fenris frowned in confusion at that, until he realised that she must have meant Briony. He shook his head. “No, that’s–”

“Bag of flour above her door?”

At any other time, Fenris might have laughed at the image of all Briony’s cool templar beauty doused in flour from head to toe. As it was he barely managed a smile. “No, she did nothing, ah… bee-worthy.” Even as he looked across at her, he felt the smile fall away from his face.

She let out a long suffering sigh, before she climbed up to stand balanced on the railing. Just as he was about to ask her what she was doing, she leapt across onto the stairs’ near banister, hopped onto the next one without pause, and jumped down to land neatly on two feet beside him. Fenris raised an eyebrow up at her as she smirked at him. “Lots of practice escaping from second storeys,” she explained.

His tipped his head in acknowledgement. “I have had my share, as well.”

“So if the fairytale princess wasn’t getting all up in your face, what is?” she asked, sitting herself down on one of the chairs arrayed around the table.

Fenris chewed at the inside of one cheek, thumbing at a scratch on the tabletop. “It’s – complicated.” He didn’t know how to explain it, and wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“Oof, one of my least favourite words.” She screwed up her nose. “Well the Champion’s on the mend, so it can’t be that. Cullen gone and done something stupid? I always kinda figured him for the dopey-lovey-dovey type if he ever managed to actually squeeze in a main squeeze… coulda been wrong though.”

It took a moment for him to parse her words. She reached across and helped herself to his cup of wine, taking a healthy gulp. “Bleurgh!” She pulled a face and set it down further away from her.

“It’s not because of Cullen,” Fenris said flatly. “We are not together anymore. But it was no fault of his.”

“What?” She recoiled with an incredulous sneer. “You two seemed to be getting along like a house on fire. It’s not cos of Hawke, surely?”

Fenris hunched further over, resting his elbows on the table. “It didn’t seem right, to be…”

“What, happy, for a bit? An’ I thought Hawke left you?” She leaned her elbows on the table too, peering at him with her sharp, tawny eyes. “I mean Cullen and me’ll never be best of friends or anything, but seems a bit harsh to be passed over for the flaky ex.”

“As I said, it’s complicated,” Fenris protested, but it sounded feeble even to his own ears.

She shrugged, somehow managing to convey with that simple gesture what an idiot she thought he was being. “Well, no skin off my nose. Just don’t be a sucker for punishment.”

“What’s he done now?” Bull asked as he approached up the stairs. He set down an unopened bottle of wine beside Fenris’ glass and lowered himself into a chair, which creaked ominously as he settled all his muscled Qunari bulk upon it. “Fenris. Long time, no see."

“He’s given Cullen the flick,” Sera said, frank as ever.

Bull said nothing, just turned to Fenris with a questioning look on his craggy features.

“Hawke and I were together when he d…” Fenris swallowed the word that had been on his lips, “… disappeared.”

“I thought it was over before that?” Bull asked. "I know he still carried a torch, but I mean... he left you alone in Kirkwall for six months."

Sera gestured erratically at Bull, raising her eyebrows so high toward Fenris they threatened to vanish beneath her ragged blonde fringe.

“It was not supposed to end things between us,” Fenris managed.

“Oh, well, in that case,” Bull said flatly.

Fenris grabbed his glass of wine and drained it in three swallows, grimacing at the sourness. He was annoyed, not only at their pestering, but at Hawke, and also at the significant part of himself that wanted to accept they were right – that no matter what Hawke had gone through, he had long forsaken Fenris’ devotion.

“I have not forgiven what Hawke did. I cannot,” he emphasised, admitting it as much to himself as to either of them. “But after what he has gone through, what he is still facing… how can I add to his burdens?” Fenris picked up the new wine bottle and set to work on the cork. “What would you have me do?”

“It would explain the doom and gloom,” Sera said, off-hand as always. “Not strange to feel glum when you feel trapped.”

I don’t feel trapped, Fenris wanted to say, but the words died on his lips before he could get them out. He would have said, perhaps, that he felt duty bound, but what was that except a nicer way of putting the same thing? He did love Hawke, and it was clear the feeling was returned - trusting him again, that was the problem. “Varric said similar. That I shouldn’t feel obligated.” 

“And he’s Hawke’s bestie.” Sera sat back, folding her arms across her chest. “If he’s telling you that, I mean…” she trailed off.

“Ah, yes, that makes it so simple,” Fenris muttered.

One side of Bull’s mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Well, you could always take a bottle of wine up to the battlements and ignore all of it for a few hours. Whatever.”

“Avoiding the problem. That sounds more like my usual approach,” Fenris said, not without some bitterness.

“Hm, perhaps not today though.” Bull attention had switched to something behind Fenris.

A pair of human youths in uniform stood waiting. Neither looked familiar, so Fenris guessed they were returning members of the Inquisition who had wintered away from the keep. One gave a short bow and stepped forward. “Excuse me, but, His Worship requests your presence in the War Room.”

“Whose presence?” Bull asked.

“All three of you, actually,” the second runner piped up.

“Ooh, fun!” Sera said as she jumped lightly to her fun. “Or at least, I hope that means fun. So long as it’s not rich tits or swamps…”

~~~

“You cannot go, this time, Inquisitor,” Josephine insisted, leaning one elegantly manicured hand on the War Table. “With so many returning to Skyhold, your presence must be felt.” The low sun slanting in through the tall stained-glass windows made the golden fabric of her shirt gleam even brighter, and the teardrop crystal that hung from her chain of office threw back scattered points of light across the room.

Revem crossed his arms. “You don’t think it will look bad to the College, that I don’t see to the safety of the man I personally requested they send?”

“Not if you assemble an elite group especially for the task,” she reasoned. “Fiona could not have expected you to go in person. There will be many key decisions to be made in the coming weeks, many groups to be welcomed… many important diplomatic ties to be re-affirmed. There is much in which I cannot serve as stand-in.”

Revem's shoulders slumped, but he seemed to recognise defeat when he saw it. “I suppose you are right.”

She curtsied with easy grace. “Thank you, Inquisitor.”

Cullen clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder in sympathy, but he couldn’t help adding: “Better you than me. You at least have the knack for these things.”

“Speaking of that,” Josephine began again, and Cullen was slightly ashamed of the pang of dread he felt at the words. Surely she could not already be organising some important banquet or party where he must make an appearance. “There is no reason why Cullen could not go in your stead. There is no current military threat… well, not as yet – so Skyhold can more easily spare the Commander of its forces than the Inquisitor. And that must doubtlessly assure the mages of how seriously you take this situation.”

Cullen took a moment to absorb that, and only just managed to suppress a smile for Revem’s sake. Instead, he nodded his agreement, hoping he looked only approving and not gleeful. This was possibly his last chance to leave Skyhold before the day-to-day routine of the Inquisition’s army left him little enough time to eat and sleep let alone adventure. Even if he would likely spend most of it being tormented by Sera and laughed at by Bull, it was better than moping around his office. And he could understand the reasons the Inquisitor wanted them there – Bull had, Cullen wasn’t ashamed to admit, a broader range of tactical experience, and Sera’s ability to root out information was unparalleled. Between them, they would soon discover what had happened to Enchanter Finn.

Of course, Fenris would also be there – or, he would if he agreed.

The idea should have made Cullen uncomfortable, but instead it buoyed him. He thought it very likely that soon Fenris would drift out of his life entirely, whenever Hawke managed to leave Skyhold. He would enjoy the elf’s company, in whatever capacity it was offered, while there was opportunity – even if that came with its share of regret.

The hatch set into the main War Room doors swung open, and the Iron Bull had to crouch and turn in order to squeeze his broad horns and broader shoulders through the gap. Sera followed, snickering behind her hand, and then came Fenris, trailing them like a shadow.

“Good evening, all,” Revem began, setting one hip against the table. “We’ve had another setback.” He turned slightly, reaching across to tap his fingertips on the marker for Val Royeaux. “I asked the College of Enchanters for help with Hawke, and they sent some out a week ago – a spirit healer, the best they have, and a warrior escort. Clearly, they haven’t arrived, and Fiona is concerned.” His hands skimmed over the stretch of Imperial Highway that followed the southern coast of the Waking Sea and cut across the Frostbacks. “We need to find them. Not just for their own sake, but for Hawke’s too. It might be Hawke’s best shot at a full recovery. I’m putting together a group to search.”

“You want me to accompany you?” Fenris asked, brow furrowed.

“I am not able to leave Skyhold right now,” Revem said, though Cullen didn’t believe that had been Fenris’ primary concern. Leaving Hawke behind, yet again, could not sound a welcome proposition. Revem looked towards him with a nod. “Cullen will be leading the group.”

“You need the boys for this?” Bull arched his back, stretching, and grunted as there was an audible pop from somewhere in his spine.

“You might want to take a certain Dalish ‘archer’ with you – we have few mages, and Hawke may still need Dorian’s help. But it will be a small group, one that can move quickly. We have to assume they haven’t run into any significant force; we would have heard if there’d been anyone like that in play along the main stretch of Imperial Highway.” Revem looked down at the expanse of the map before him. “Between you and Sera, it shouldn’t take long to pick up a lead.”

Sera snorted. “You make me sound like a mabari or something, sniffing for clues.”

“Far better than any mabari.” Revem grinned. “And moderately less likely to destroy the furniture.”

Josephine grimaced for just a heartbeat, before pulling her features back into their mild expression.

Sera returned his grin. “Sounds fun. Little treasure hunt, help the big Champion get back on his feet, help someone who helps lots of someones along the way. If I had to pick a favourite type of mage, healers would be it.”

Fenris still appeared disquieted, and Cullen could not be surprised. He moved towards the elf. “You don’t have to come, if you prefer to stay with Hawke.” He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way. “There are others who could play the role of travelling mercenary almost as well.”

“No,” Fenris answered, more quickly than Cullen had expected, setting his lyrium-marked jaw. “Getting that healer here is his best chance. There can be nothing more important. I just – need to explain it to him.”

“Yes, I was planning to do that,” Revem said. “Varric will send someone when Hawke’s awake again, then I can fill him in on all of this.”

“I will inform him, Inquisitor.” Fenris was clearly determined, dark brows drawn together. “It is not only that which I must discuss with him.”

Bull and Sera exchanged a sidelong glance.

Revem didn’t seem to notice, unfazed as he nodded his agreement. “Of course.” He surveyed the rest of the assembled group. “Well, let’s go over what we know.”

~~~

No message from Varric came before the meeting was done, and Fenris finally excused himself and headed back to check on Hawke for himself. When he got there it was to find the Champion sprawled on the bed, snoring lightly, while Varric sorted a sheaf of scribbled notes spread over the healer’s worktable. Merrill was ensconced in a corner, seated cross legged on the floor as she pored over one of the ancient books she had brought from the Gallows. There was no healer present, anymore, and Fenris took it as a good sign that they no longer felt constant monitoring was needed.

“Fenris,” Varric murmured, rising from his seat. He gave the Tevinter an appraising look and frowned. “I take it you didn’t get that nap I suggested.”

“No, I was summoned by the Inquisitor.”

“That business about the lost enchanter?” Varric’s frown took on a puzzled note. “He wants you to go?”

“One of us should. That mage may be Hawke’s best chance.” Fenris moved the chair by the bed towards the healer’s table and sat down. “And, it might not be unwise for me to… take some space, at least for a few days.”

“Cullen’s leading that search, isn’t he?” Varric asked, voice carefully neutral.

“Yes.” Fenris propped his elbows on his knees, resting his forehead on his hands. “Perhaps that will give me the chance to speak to him, properly. But I also need to speak with Hawke, before I leave.” He let his fingers slide back into his hair, tilting his head further forward, then straightened back up to look at Varric. “You were right. I have to make the decision for myself.”

“What are you two talking about? What decision?” Merrill asked, rising from her spot to move closer to the table. She took in the discomfort on Fenris’ face and winced. “Oh, I asked the wrong thing, didn’t I?”

He resisted the urge to put his head in his hands once more. “No, there’s little point hiding it. It was not common knowledge, but nor was it a secret.” He made himself meet her curious gaze. “I was with someone else, before we found Hawke.”

“But of course you were, you couldn’t go traipsing about a field full of demons all by yourself could you – well, maybe you could, but most… oh! You mean with as in, having sex with!”

Varric let out a slightly strained laugh. “Yeah, Daisy. You got it.”

“I don’t understand why… well, why that upsets you, though,” she said, taking a half a step closer. “Only, you seemed so terribly… lost, and lonely, when I last saw you in Kirkwall. I wanted to help, but we’ve never really gotten on so, well, I thought I might just make things worse. Isn't it a good thing, to have someone, when you were alone?” She shrugged with a sort of sad resignation.

Fenris shook his head. “I doubt Hawke will believe it a good thing,” he muttered.

She looked bemused. “But it's only natural - we all thought him six months dead, and you'd been properly together what - half that. Anyway, Hawke’s a grown man. If he can handle an Arishok or a high dragon, I think he will manage a little disappointment.” She smiled, surprising him. He had expected a flustered sort of worry, but he had forgotten how relaxed the Dalish seemed to be about such things. “Though this must all be a lot to deal with, for your lover.”

“He's not - well, we haven't spoken of it. Not since finding Hawke.” For a moment, even sitting there in Hawke’s room, Fenris felt a surge of panic that maybe his chance with Cullen was gone. That maybe the Commander had felt, as Fenris had, that things between them had been immediately severed by Hawke’s return - and prior claim. "There hasn't been the opportunity."

“Well you should make sure to find one!” Merrill said confidently. “We none of us get all that many chances to be happy these days, you can’t just let it go. But your face might crack if you smile, so be careful.”

Again, he couldn’t seem to come up with a response. Everyone seemed to believe that his romance with Hawke had long been severed by the rogue’s own actions, and it came as a surprise to him each time. Was he truly so naïve? He had believed Hawke the one love of his life - had still believed so when he came to Skyhold. 

Varric chortled, watching them both with interest. “I can’t believe I’m witness to an actually civil conversation between the two of you – I need to note this one down.”

“She’s right though,” came a gravelly voice from behind them.

They all started, as if caught in the middle of something untoward. Hawke stretched and slowly propped himself up so that he could look at them. His hair and clothes were rumpled, and the skin around his eyes and nose had a pale, strained cast, but he wasn’t visibly upset.

“Hawke!” Varric began, hopping up from his seat to approach the bed. “I didn’t notice you were awake.”

“Fenris.” Hawke’s eyes were on the elf, even though Varric had been the one speaking. “I think we need to talk.” He still looked exhausted, but he managed to pull himself up to seated.

Varric turned back and caught Merrill gently by the elbow. “Come on, Daisy. Let’s go grab something to eat and let these two clear the air, okay?”

Fenris watched them leave, and stayed awkwardly where he was. He didn’t know how he expected Hawke to react. The rogue sighed as the door clicked shut behind the others.

“What did you hear?” Fenris asked, guilt making it harder to force the words out.

“Most of it, I think,” Hawke said. He cleared his throat, and it turned into a cough – Fenris was three steps closer to the bed before Hawke managed to catch his breath. Their eyes met, and Hawke smiled, though it wasn’t a happy one. “It’s all right, Fenris, really.” He spoke rapidly, overly so, his voice too loud and unsteady even as the smile stayed pinned in place. “I’m honoured, and I know how much you’ve done for me. I won’t pretend there aren’t things I wish I could change…” he stopped, his features twisted with regret.

“Hawke. I am sorry,” Fenris said, voice tense and stilted. Where stress made Hawke overly verbose, it made it even harder for Fenris to find the words.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” Hawke rubbed at his eyes with his finger and thumb. “I was an idiot, on all counts, when it came to you. Years and years of wasted opportunities, then we finally got it together and I tripped at the first post.”

Fenris closed the distance between them and sat down carefully beside Hawke. The rogue dropped his hand away from his face, his golden-brown eyes over-bright when they opened again.

It would be over between them – for good, despite the second chance they had been given – and that thought came with an uncomfortable lurch of fear that almost made Fenris want to take it back. But he knew he could not.

“I am sorry all the same,” he said, instead, voice low and steadier than he had expected.

“I am, too.” Hawke looked down, his fingers tracing the crumpled blanket. “Taking off without you – not sending for you once I realised the scope of everything happening – you having to mourn me. I can’t tell you how much I regret that.”

Fenris watched Hawke’s hand in motion across the fabric’s woollen weave, until finally it lifted up towards Fenris’ face. The elf closed his eyes as Hawke hesitantly brushed back a few strands of white hair behind one pointed ear, keeping his face down. Fenris didn’t want to see the tenderness he knew would be in the rogue’s expression.

“Can I kiss you?” Hawke murmured. “Just once more.”

At that, Fenris finally looked up at Hawke. Still so handsome, despite the signs of exhaustion he bore. His hand rested lightly against the side of Fenris’ face, callused fingers spanning his cheek and throat, but Hawke made no move to pull Fenris closer. He sighed again at whatever he perceived in Fenris’ expression, and drew his hand back.

Fenris leaned in, catching Hawke’s jaw to tilt it back up, and laid his lips carefully over Hawke’s own.

It was chaste, and brief, and sad. Fenris felt no spark of desire flare in his gut, as he would once over far less, but the love and protectiveness was still there – for his friend, his great friend, and no longer his lover.

When he drew back, Hawke smiled – barely a twitch of his lips – before his expression became wistful. “It feels a bit like goodbye,” he remarked.

“It’s not.” Fenris stood to retrieve his chair, moving it right beside the bed again. “You won’t get rid of me that easily, Hawke.”

“But you are going somewhere, right? I thought I heard it mentioned.”

“For a few days only,” Fenris was quick to assure him. “Perhaps a week. There was a spirit healer sent from the mages to help you, but he hasn’t arrived. They wanted me to be part of the group to go after him.” He paused, trying to read Hawke’s expression. “Will you be all right if I do?”

Hawke shrugged, then seemed to reconsider and nodded instead. “I’m sure Varric and Merrill will look after me.” He settled back against the pillows, and for a few moments they were both quiet. Hawke did not look at Fenris when he spoke again: “Who is it? The… other man?”

“Ah.” Fenris frowned. “Are you sure you want to discuss this?”

Hawke laughed, little more than a fast exhale and a flash of white teeth beneath his moustache. “I’ll hear about it from someone. I’d rather it be from you.”

“Very well.” Fenris leaned back in his chair, feigning calm when his heart was beating faster once more. “It’s Cullen.”

That brought Hawke’s attention back to him as though Fenris had shouted the word. “Commander Cullen?”

“Yes.”

“Maker.” This time Hawke’s laugh was louder, a startled little chuckle. “If I weren’t so jealous of the man, I’d have to high-five you. Or ask to join in.” With a wink and a grin, the mood was at once so familiar that it felt almost surreal – Hawke his usual irreverent self, and Fenris rolling his eyes and trying not to laugh at all the things he said just to get a reaction.

“You are sure you will be all right?” Fenris asked.

The mirth drained out of Hawke, and for a moment he was still and thoughtful. But then he nodded, the line of his mouth tightening in resignation. “Yeah. It might take a while, but… yeah.”

Fenris stifled a yawn behind his hand, leaning forward over the saddle horn until a twinge in his back made him jolt upright again. The bay gelding tossed his head a little at his rider’s erratic movements, but thankfully stayed where he was, and Fenris patted the horse’s dark mane in thanks.

He had been awake far too late, sitting with Hawke. They had talked – well, mostly it had been Hawke who talked, while Fenris sat tense as a crossbow string – until eventually their exchanges became less stilted and things between them seemed as easy as they could be with Fenris’ decision hanging over them. He knew he should go and seek his own bed, given the day that lay ahead, but there had never seemed to be the right moment to do so. When Bull came looking for him an hour before dawn, it was to find Fenris sleeping, one final time, hunched over the side of Hawke’s bed with his head resting on his own folded arms. Fenris had written Hawke a short note before making his hasty preparations to leave.

He closed his eyes at the thought of Hawke, and sent a quick prayer to Andraste that he had made the right choice.

Most of the snow had cleared within the keep’s walls, but the grass was pale with frost as they assembled in the ethereal grey light just before dawn. Their group was small, built more for speed than for force. That said, having sparred against most of its members and seen at least Cullen in a real battle, he thought they were likely force enough to contend with any threat less than an army. Bull’s lieutenant and the Chargers’ mage – Krem and ‘Dalish’, apparently, though despite the nickname she rode a piebald mare instead of a hart – were less familiar to him than the others, but he had no doubt they would prove just as capable. The Chargers may have been unconventional, but they didn’t carry dead weight.

Cullen was an early riser, and looked in his element as he finished checking their supplies one final time and hefted himself easily into the saddle. “Ready?” he asked the group over his shoulder. They all murmured their agreement, though Sera looked even tireder than Fenris felt – she lay against her placid pony’s mane, her eyes barely open and her hair sticking up all over.

The Inquisitor approached from the steps. Revem surveyed the six of them with alert blue-grey eyes and nodded his approval. Like Cullen, he showed no signs of fatigue – in his case Fenris suspected it was not so much that he was a ‘morning person’, but that he could rise to his duty no matter the hour. The more Fenris saw of the red-haired elf, the more he respected the Inquisitor.

“Dorian sends his best,” Revem remarked to Cullen as he closed the gap between them. “He said I was mad if I expected him to get out of bed before dawn to stand in the frost.”

Cullen grinned. “No, really? That sounds completely unlike Dorian.”

Sera snorted at that and finally sat up in the saddle, stretching elaborately.

Revem turned to face the rest of the group. “The White Spire left a message with one of our mages overnight. Their scrying didn’t show much – forested hills, glimpses of the highway. But they are at least sure Enchanter Finn and his companion live.”

Bull shifted in the saddle, bundling the reins into one hand. “Good. Nobody likes a wild goose chase.” His mount, an imposing draft horse that was sooty black all the way from its ears to its shaggy fetlocks, seemed unperturbed by the weight of its rider. But then, Fenris supposed Cullen’s grey warhorse was scarcely carrying less, with all the plate armour.

“Hills and forest – around Halamshiral, perhaps?” Dalish said in her lilting voice.

“Perhaps – either way, our path is the same,” Cullen squared his shoulders in the saddle. “We’ll follow the highway, keep our ears and eyes open.”

“I wish you well,” Revem said simply, stepping back. “Dareth shiral.”

Just as Cullen nudged his horse into a walk, Varric’s voice called down from above them. “Hold on!”

Cullen’s horse circled around the others, before he pulled it to a halt in surprise; Varric had Hawke with him, the Champion leaning on the dwarf for the support with each step down the stairs. Their progress was slow, but steady, and when they finally reached the grass Hawke grinned over at Fenris in triumph.

The elf smiled, despite his misgivings about Hawke being out of bed so soon. “Is this really a good idea?” he called.

“Couldn’t let you go off without saying goodbye, could I?” Hawke countered. “Besides, all that resting got old pretty quickly.” He took in the scene, his grin becoming a rueful smile. “Really wish I could come with you, though I suppose there wouldn’t be a whole lot of point to the expedition if I were in a state to do that.”

“Soon,” Fenris said with a firm nod. “I will make sure of it.”

As they rode out through the gates, daylight breaking in rosy hues around them, Fenris looked back to see Revem prop up Hawke’s other side as the trio turned back towards the stairs. Hawke caught Fenris watching, and stopped just long enough to wave.

Fenris returned it, then turned to face the bridge and the road before them, firming his grip on the reins.

Chapter Text

Fenris had learned long ago that, difficult though he might find it, the only way to truly know another’s mind was to ask them. He and Hawke had wasted so much time circling one another because neither was willing to do so.

Fenris had thought to try and draw Cullen aside that first night at camp, at least to break the silence between them – he had no expectations that he could restore what they had so easily, that it was even right to do so, but this would be the first step.

But they rode hard and far that first day, on the steep and snow-cloaked mountain pass beneath Skyhold that was only barely travelworthy with the advancing spring. It was clear that the Imperium, or another great civilisation of the past, had begun work on improvements to the route – the mountainsides were carved away in parts to make room for ancient stonework, and bridges spanned the steepest crevasses. The Inquisition had added its own repairs and enhancements in its years at Skyhold, shoring up what still stood and then expanding upon it, but the project was far from finished. It spoke clearly to how well the Inquisition’s members valued its cause that so many of them had already braved such roads – if the icy stretches of weathered stone and unbroken snow could be called such – to return to the keep.

They walked on foot to rest their horses and stopped only to question the occasional group of travellers bound for Skyhold; none had seen anything unexpected in their trip, and none had news of their missing spirit healer.

Fenris was exhausted well before dusk, and he might have fallen asleep in the saddle if it weren’t for the ache in his legs and back from the ride and the way the cold gnawed at him.

They camped in the arched mouth of a shallow cave set just back from the path, protected from the worst of the snow. It was clearly a regular stop for travellers heading to and from Skyhold. There was a firepit already dug, still lined with the charred remnants of a previous night’s fire, and a log had been hauled over to lie alongside it as a makeshift bench. A picket line was strung between two trees close by, and there were divots in the ground where tent pegs had been hammered into the dirt.

Fenris was just grateful that some of the work was done, so he could fall into his bedroll sooner. He moved through the motions of making camp like a sleepwalker: there had been enough long trips to Sundermount or the Wounded Coast in his past that he could do his part passably enough without thought. Once the tents were up and a sealed clay pot of something had been set beside the fire to heat, he sat down with the others to warm up. He knew straight away that sitting was a mistake; his eyelids were so heavy that his vision swam as he tried to keep them open. He leaned against his pack, thinking that he could just rest his eyes until the meal was ready.

He was shaken awake by a solid weight on his shoulder, and looked up blearily to find Bull peering down at him. The Tal-Vashoth held a bowl of stew, dwarfed in his massive grey hand. “Hey, Fenris.” Bull held the bowl out. “You need to eat something and get into a tent. You’ll freeze out here.”

Fenris glanced around himself and realised he had fallen asleep slumped against his pack in the circle of the fire. His face and the front of his body were uncomfortably warm, while the seat and thighs of his leggings were damp and chilled from the ground. Cullen was arranging some branches across the edges of the firepit, but the others must have already retired for the night. He could hear a faint murmuring of a female voice coming from one of the tents close behind him.

Fenris took the bowl he was offered with a murmured thanks. He was still groggy, and felt faintly unwell – normal, having slept far less than his body demanded. Still, he knew that at least a measure of his exhaustion was the result of how little he had eaten in the last few days. More than the last few days, if he were honest. All the pretense of self-care he had gradually learned in Kirkwall, under the nagging insistence of not only Hawke but Varric and Aveline and even Anders, seemed to evaporate as soon as Hawke was in trouble. He shook his head at himself as he chewed the first mouthful. He would have to do better. He could not burden all of his new companions with such concerns.

Bull sat nearby, and Cullen soon joined him, unrolling a map between them as they discussed their movements for the following day.

Fenris half-listened as he ate, too tired to really absorb the words. Finally his meal was finished and he set the empty bowl aside, caught up his bedroll and all but crawled towards the tents. The two women were still holding a hushed conversation inside one, but the next was unoccupied. Fenris spread his bedroll out haphazardly on one side, dragged off his armour, and was asleep again almost as soon as he pulled the cover over himself.

He realised the next morning that it was Cullen who had shared the tent, but only when he woke as the other man left already armed and armoured. There was little time to dwell on missed chances; they kept up the punishing pace of the first day and reached the foot of the mountains by the second evening, still without any sign or word of the man they sought. Fenris managed to actually stay awake to eat with the others this time, if barely, before heading to his bedroll.

He awoke while the Commander was dressing, back carefully turned towards Fenris. Fenris watched through his eyelashes, embarassed to be intruding in such a way – regretting that it could now be considered such. How often had his hands traced that skin, in their month together? Fenris could remember too well the way it felt, the smooth ridges and notches of the scars mapping Cullen’s body, the expanse of hard muscle beneath. He closed his eyes resolutely before Cullen had a chance to realise he was being watched.

Perhaps now, they could talk… but Fenris could hear others already awake and moving about in the other tents. And even as he realised, the opportunity was gone: Cullen hurried to finish dressing and left.

They cut north that day, the terrain scarcely easier as their road curved around the mountains and over undulating foothills towards the Imperial Highway. As they crested a steep hill, which continued up to join the snowy peaks of the Frostbacks high above them to the east, they could see the plains and forests of the northern Dales stretching out before them, the branching rivers cutting through it fine as gleaming ribbons from this distance. Beyond, the Waking Sea was no more than a streak of misty blue, disappearing beyond the horizon.

“It’s a needle in a flipping haystack,” Sera exclaimed as she nudged her pony up over the top of the hill. “How many nugs short of a dwarf picnic are we to go off hunting through all of Orlais with only six of us?”

Bull snorted. “With all your people you’ll probably hear word before any of us.”

Sera gave a disdainful sniff. “But ‘people’ takes… people, right? Cities, towns, even villages at a pinch. Only goats out here, except for Inquisition folk sometimes… and we can just ask them.” She glanced at Cullen, riding at the head of the group. “All falling over themselves to tell Commander Blond and Handsome there all their deepest darkest secrets.”

“Well, who wouldn’t?” Bull asked with a grin. “But there are villages, even before we hit the Highway.” He pointed ahead; just rising above the curve of a further hill Fenris could make out two faint, drifting threads of smoke.

Cullen looked back over the mane of his cloak’s thick fur collar. “We’ll see if they’ve room for us to stay there tonight. Inns and taverns are likely our best source of information.”

Sera nodded. “Course - Dalish and I swap stories with the pickpockets and the kitchen staff, Bull chats up the serving girls, Krem dices with the guards. Get all the goss.” Her eyes slid sideways, a mischievous spark in them. “Meanwhile you and Fenris can nip upstairs, right?”

Cullen didn’t look back this time, and the high collar hid the blush that Fenris was fairly sure would be creeping up the back of his neck.

Fenris was saddle-sore and still carrying a sleep and nutrition deficit that nights on a bedroll over frozen ground and trail rations had scarcely improved – he wasn’t in the mood to be needled. He glared at the blonde elf. “What?” she shrugged. “Talking, right? I mean talking. Someone’s gotta get you two speaking to each other again. All that tension’s gonna give you both tummy aches for days.”

As it happened, the inn in the tiny village bordering the meandering path through the foothills didn’t have an upstairs. It barely counted as an inn, really – the single room was more like a barn than anything, a long, low-beamed structure set beside a tiny shabby tavern that leaned on the larger building beside it as though it had been sampling too much of its own wares. They would also be sharing with another small group of travellers, a trader and two servants taking a train of pack mules south to Emprise du Lion, which was still cut off from regular trade until the Elfsblood River thawed fully. There was little chance of privacy, or even of quiet. Still, it was better than sleeping on the ground – there were straw-stuffed pallets to lay their bedrolls out on, and the room was warm and dry.

The food served in the tavern was filling, if basic, and Fenris made sure to finish his bowl before anyone could comment yet again on his eating habits. He was willing to admit – even if silently – that a few days of eating all three main meals had him feeling better, despite the hard riding and the less-than-ideal sleeping conditions.

Still, Fenris was dismayed to discover that they didn’t stock wine, and the beer managed to be somehow watery and overly bitter all at once. After one mouthful, Fenris slid the tankard down the table to Bull.

“Fenris,” Cullen said softly at his elbow. He looked tense, and as Fenris watched his hand drifted up to rub the back of his neck in that familiar nervous habit. “Do you have a moment?”

Fenris inclined his head, pointedly not looking at Sera when her head craned forward to watch them, and trailed Cullen out onto the snow-dusted boards of the tavern’s raised deck.

The moon was almost full, and the night was glazed with a cold and gleaming white in stark contrast to the firelight inside the tavern. Cullen folded his arms and sighed, his breath a puff of steam in the frigid air. “I’ve been meaning to speak properly to you since… well before this trip,” he said, seeming to choose his words with care. “There just never seemed to be the right time.”

Fenris nodded. “Or the right words,” he added softly.

“Perhaps.” Cullen shifted his weight. “I wanted to apologise, if it’s causing you discomfort to be – forced together with me, in this way. The comments from the others, having to share a tent of all things.” He shook his head as Fenris regarded him wide-eyed, but just before the elf interjected Cullen went on again determinedly: “It was so unexpected, to find Hawke again. If I had known of course I would not have pursued you. And in the circumstances… I just don’t want to make things more difficult, so I…”

Fenris took a hasty step closer, pressing his gauntleted fingers against Cullen’s mouth to silence the words. “Always so selfless.” He let his hand drop, regarding Cullen’s bewildered face gravely. “I am the one with an apology to make, for giving you a false impression, and for doing nothing to correct it.”

“You can hardly be blamed, given the–”

Fenris replaced his hand against Cullen’s lips. “No, I can. You have been patient and kind, and I have not treated you as you deserve.” He lowered his eyes, dropping his hand to Cullen’s collar. “The rest I must say is that while I have been distracted with Hawke’s situation, it has not been because he and I have resumed the kind of relationship we once had. Actually, any such inclinations I may have… still rest with you.”

Cullen’s brows came together, a corner of his scarred lip pulling down in confusion. “But – with me?”

“Yes,” Fenris said simply.

“Surely you… you must not let me rush you into this decision,” Cullen reasoned, holding up his hands palm out. “I am more than willing – Maker only knows – but I am also willing to wait, let you resolve things fully with Hawke. I don’t wish to cause either of you more –”

Done with words, Fenris stepped resolutely into the Commander’s space, gripping the startled man by the ruff around his neck. Then he brought his lips hard against Cullen’s.

Cullen’s knees just about gave out beneath him at the kiss.

The moonlight, the silent snow and village stretching out around them, it all seemed to make the scene more surreal. For a moment his arms stayed rigid at his side, but he was – as always, with Fenris – helpless to resist. His eyelids fluttered closed and his hands slid around the elf’s slender waist, his lips parting in invitation. Fenris pressed his advantage, his grip shifting as he crowded into the Commander. There was the dull whine of metal on metal as their armour scraped together.

Fenris’ touch was a poultice, filtering through Cullen’s body to ease a dozen aches he had forced himself to forget. His kiss, each graze of skin against skin felt like a blessing, and Cullen’s mind was a prayer in response – thank the Maker. Their panted breath steamed in the frosty air as their lips met and parted, unhurried at first but gradually becoming more impatient until Cullen had the fingers of one hand tangled in Fenris’ white hair while the other dipped beneath the waistband of the elf’s fitted leather breeches. Fenris groaned against Cullen’s mouth, and it sent another surge of lust through him to hear – to feel, as the elf’s hips angled forward to bring his arousal into more direct contact – that Fenris was just as affected by their touch.

Fenris broke off the kiss, suddenly, tilting his head forward so that his forehead met Cullen’s. His eyes, the green appearing almost black in the dim light, closed and he made a sound that was half-laugh and half-sigh.

“What’s wrong?” Cullen asked, afraid of what the answer might be. The restoration of their tenuous bond felt fragile as a soap bubble.

“Nothing is wrong,” Fenris said, smiling in a way that made Cullen believe him. “But I am a fool to have started this, when tonight we share a room with half a dozen others.”

Cullen surprised himself when he summoned up a laugh of his own, shifting his head forward until his lips touched the leather jerkin over Fenris’ wiry shoulder. His arms tightened around the elf. “I don’t mind,” he said. “I don’t mind at all. This is already far more than I expected, to be honest.”

“I am sorry,” Fenris murmured against his ear. “I should have explained myself - once I knew.”

Cullen turned his face, just quietly breathing in the scent of Fenris’ skin. “I understood. I…” he swallowed, not wanting to say it, but he felt he should: “I still would understand, you know. If things change, if you need more time – you have had to bear much, lately. I don’t want to add to that. I will wait.”

Fenris was silent, but he returned Cullen’s embrace just as hard. They stood there, quietly, listening to the muffled sounds from the tavern beside them and the whisper of the trees shifting in the breeze.

“Venhedis, no, I do not wish to wait. I am certain, if you are,” Fenris said finally, his voice even lower and softer than usual. “I… missed this. Missed you.”

Cullen felt the words soak into him, making him almost giddy – he wanted to… to pick Fenris up and whirl him around, or something equally foolish. He settled for squeezing that bit tighter. “So did I.”

They broke apart before they returned to the warmth of the tavern, but not before Cullen stole one final kiss – soft and reverent, this time.

The Iron Bull smirked at them when they reappeared, raising his tankard subtly. Cullen could guess how Bull had known, given the tenderness in his lips – it was probably obvious even to those without the former Ben-Hassrath’s observational skills – but he couldn’t quite bring himself to be bothered.

Beval’s scream was cut off as the terror demon’s claws punctured his throat. His eyes widened and he choked, trying to drag in breath that would not come.

“No,” Cullen whispered, too hoarse to give proper voice to his horror. The demon keened in Beval’s face, exulting in the animal fear rolling off the dying templar.

“If you would just give in, I could make it all stop,” she purred, leaning casually on the brilliant barrier beside him. She was wearing Neria’s face again, though her irises still gleamed purple from within dull black sclera, the pupils slitted like a cats. “I could make it like it never happened.”

“Never.” Cullen coughed, then said louder: “Never!”

“Oh, very well.”

Beval stood there once more, his shield raised as the terror demon advanced on him. It shook in his hands.

He was jolted out of the nightmare by a hand on his arm. “Cullen.”

He was still trembling, and his skin was damp with sweat. The room was dark. Cullen could hear the even breathing of the others sleeping in the space.

He could barely make out Fenris’ shadow beside him, raised on one elbow to peer across through the gloom, but he covered the elven warrior’s hand with his own. “Thank you,” he managed, relieved at how normal his voice sounded – he had not been screaming, at least.

Fenris gripped his fingers back in the darkness.

When he awoke before dawn in the morning, they were lying facing one another, hands still entwined across the gap between their bedrolls.

Chapter Text

By the following afternoon, the sparse trees that dotted the snowy foothills surrounding the Highway had given way to true thickets, and the air carried the scent of green forest and clear water. There was still snow on the ground, especially higher on the peaks, but the sun shone above them and Fenris could hear birds calling in the trees.

The Highway meandered through this part of Orlais, curving around the base of the hills and through the open terrain between tracts of forest. Perhaps the Magister in charge of constructing this section, centuries ago, had been more appreciative of natural beauty than those of his ilk who saw their own contributions carved straight through whatever lay in their path.

As they rounded the next bend, the terrain opened out into a shallow valley. A good-sized village sat just back from the road, surrounded by an imposing hexagonal wall with tell-tale dragon carvings that spoke of Tevinter construction. In parts the houses had spilled beyond the confines of the wall, and much of the valley was laid out with fields and fences.

Iron Bull jerked his head towards the scene, looking pointedly at Sera. “Enough people for you there?”

There was a speculative glint in her eye as she looked it over. “I can work with that, yeah.”

Workers in the fields straightened to watch them as they passed. Bull drew most of the stares: Vashoth were rare this far south, and his scarred face and impressive set of horns made him especially noteworthy. But his seat was relaxed and he smiled easily at those watching, and soon the villagers returned to their work.

Fenris could see how such a man would have been a success in the Ben Hassrath: his demeanour could not have been more different from the stern, glowering Qunari warriors southerners expected. Despite his size and the axe strapped to his back he projected an air of ease and friendliness. “Were people more wary of you, after the tensions with the Qunari in Kirkwall?” Fenris asked him.

The Iron Bull shrugged. “Not really, but then, I don’t come across Qunari.” He grinned at a portly woman who was staring openly from the roadside, and she smiled faintly before she averted her eyes. “In a way, it was free advertising for a supposed Tal-Vashoth mercenary – all of the muscle, none of the threat of invasion.”

Fenris nodded – for all the Qunari’s warnings about the fate that awaited those who left the Qun, many seemed to manage quite well free of the rigid structure it gave their lives. And many didn’t, of course. There had been enough camped out on the Wounded Coast, over the years, who seemed to live for aimless violence.

And they had not been forcibly ejected, either. “Do you… miss the Qun?”

Again, Bull shrugged, but the smile had faded from his face. “Yes and no. Not a lot changed for me, not day-to-day. But pretending to be Tal-Vashoth and actually being Tal-Vashoth, well, it was sort of like... the difference between closing your eyes and being blinded.”

Fenris could sympathise, in his own way. There was a vast difference between escaping slavery, and actually being free – when life finally stopped revolving around what you had left behind. Many former slaves struggled with that newfound freedom. It was one reason so many ended up converting to the Qun – not so different from slavery, in many ways, though without the abuse and blood magic perpetuated by so many Magisters.

“Looking back, it was probably inevitable,” the Iron Bull went on. “You pretend a thing long enough, the mask just becomes your face. Dunno if I could do re-education again, and after how well it took the first time, not sure I would have been given another chance anyway. Don't much fancy ending up a mindless labourer, though maybe if I didn't have the Chargers...” He looked ahead, to where Krem rode in quiet conversation with Cullen beside him, and the smile came back. “In the end, they mattered to me more than the Qun. Sataareth kadan hass-toh issala ebasit.”

It took a moment for Fenris to parse the words, with the abrupt shift in language: my purpose is to protect those dear to me.

Fenris’ own eyes strayed to the back of Cullen’s blond head, the hints of waves and curls that showed through after several days on the road. He thought of Hawke, and of the Fog Warriors, of how much he had changed, and how little. He was still a bodyguard, in essence, more devoted to protecting those he cared about than he had ever been under Danarius’ heel.

The guard who nodded them through the village gates seemed alert, eyes passing over them all in turn, but not overly worried.

All stops along the Imperial Highway proper tended to be equipped to take advantage of the trade brought by travellers, especially in Orlais – many Orlesian nobility kept summer houses and hunting lodges in the Dales. So it was no surprise to see that this village had a large, well-equipped inn, with a market square and a tavern beyond. The guardhouse was set opposite the inn, crouched against the thick outer wall, and the steeply sloped roof of a small chantry could be seen past the first row of houses.

The architecture of the place was a patchwork of styles: the wall and the oldest buildings were Tevinter, the structures improbably symmetrical and ornate due to the assistance of magic in their construction, suggesting this place had once been a base of operations for work on the Highway. But the rest of the buildings drew from a mixture of Fereldan and Orlesian inspiration, with the odd blocky structure that could have been Marcher or even Dwarven in origin.

“I remember this place,” Krem said slowly. “Wasn’t this near where –”

“Not a word, Krem.” Bull said, pointing one thick grey finger at his lieutenant. “I have an image to maintain.”

“Oh yes, the feathers!” Dalish exclaimed. “I thought you made a very fetching chicken. If a rather large one.”

Bull fixed her with a withering look as they pulled their horses to a halt outside the inn. He turned to Cullen, who was trying very hard to keep a straight face. “Divide and conquer?”

Cullen nodded, scanning their surrounds. “I’ll look in at the guardhouse, inquire through the official channels.” He hesitated, then added: “Maybe even one of the Chantry sisters may know something.”

“Think I’ll go do a bit of shopping,” Sera said, stretching in the saddle. “See who might be about to drop a rumour in my ear.”

Dalish nodded. “I might take a walk about the place, myself. They’ll be used to Dalish this close to Halamshiral – plenty of elves around who won’t be scared away by a wee bit of green ink.” She gestured at her own face, a self-deprecating smile on her full lips.

Bull nodded. “I’ll take the tavern. If drunks are good at one thing, it’s talking.” He grinned at Krem. “What about you, Krem-puff? Gonna join me for an ale or three?”

The soporatus grimaced at the nickname, then shook his head. “I’ll get lodgings sorted for the night. See what the innkeeper and the stable hands might have seen.”

“Fenris? Coming for a drink?” Bull tried.

Fenris thought for a moment, taking in the surrounds. “No, I…” Bull was far too perceptive, and Fenris had no wish to give the man an opportunity to pry into the state of affairs with Cullen again. It still felt too fragile, almost surreal. “I will have a look around, also,” he finished.

Cullen hauled himself out of the saddle, sliding down to the ground with an ease that should not be possible for a man wearing so much armour. “Right. Let’s hope between us, we can dig up some sort of information. Be back here before sundown,” he said firmly to the group, “and be careful.”

Fenris took a different direction to Dalish and Sera both: he knew his presence, even at a distance, would likely dissuade the village elves from being drawn into conversation with them. He was intimidating, markedly different both from city elves and from the Dalish, not at all aided by the Blade of Mercy strapped to his back. He contented himself merely with walking and observing – ignoring, with the ease of long practice, the stares he drew from elves and humans alike.

As he got further from the main square, he could see the elven influences that must have been here since before the Tevinters arrived. Some of the stones in the wall had once been part of something else, based on the worn carvings of elven figures or halla he could spot here and there. Beside a small furrier’s shop he found a vast stone wolf on a dais, almost as long as the building beside it. Set amidst the paving stones were other blocky bases, where more statues must have been removed, but the wolf had been left alone. Perhaps even the Tevinter Imperium did not wish to risk offending the ‘Dread Wolf’ Merrill had so often invoked.

Towards the very rear of the village stood another stone wall, almost as tall as the outer one behind it and coated in bright layers of paint; white swirls were picked out against a background of earthy reds and oranges. The heavy gates that stood open at the entrance were threaded through with red twine, dried herbs and flowers dangling from the loose ends. Fenris glanced up, eyes narrowed, and saw immediately that one of the trees stood forward from the rest of the forest behind the village, stretching up from inside the wall rather than beyond it and its trunk painted with similar designs as the wall: what the city elves called a vhenadahl. This was the alienage, then.

He looked at it, taking in the shape of the wall with its vivid mural, and felt a sense of unease even before he realised the cause of it. He had seen many such complexes before, in camps and towns throughout the Tevinter Imperium. He shook his head as he turned away.

He met the eyes of a female elf who leaned casually against a low garden wall across the way. She had fair skin and reddish-brown hair, and she was watching him intently. “What is it that offends you?” she called.

He had almost missed, at first glance, the pattern of faint brown tattoos that trailed across her forehead and dipped down outside each eye. Dalish, then – or at least originally. There were many, like Arianni in Kirkwall, who left their clans behind for one reason or another.

He jerked his head at the alienage behind him. “This is where the Tevinters housed their slaves.” He had seen enough in his time to recognise what he saw, no matter how much paint masked the old Tevinter walls.

“So? Elves do not have many options for where to make their homes,” she remarked. “And is it not a worthwhile thing, to turn a place of suffering into a home, a haven for the People?”

“A haven, you call it?” he scoffed. “The alienage?”

“I have seen far worse,” she countered. “They have plenty of room here. Their vhenedahl grows tall and green. And an elf is now Marquise of the Dales.”

“They?” He shifted his weight, looking more closely at her. “You do not live here, then?”

“No, I am a traveller. Like yourself, I assume.” She smiled thinly. “Do you truly wield such a blade? You move well enough with it.”

He glared at her. “Only a fool carries a weapon they cannot use.”

“And you are no fool.” It wasn’t quite a statement, the smile she wore more a smirk now. “An elf with a greatsword – quite a feat, if you have half an idea what you’re doing. If I had my own swords, I might have asked to spar.”

“You are a warrior?” She wore no armour, but even as he asked, he recognised the evidence of it. She didn’t have the height for the Blade he carried, but there was a sinewy strength to her small frame, and she bore a fine lattice of scars on her hands and arms. “But no weapons?”

She shrugged dismissively. “Stolen. We were robbed in Lydes. Our food was drugged – the wrong person found out that we were carrying gold enough for horses.”

The pieces clicked into place for Fenris, at that. He took a step forward, his irritation fading. “Are you... Ariane?”

She pushed off the wall, grey eyes narrowing. “Who are you?” she demanded.

He folded his arms across his chest. “I am Fenris. I’m with the Inquisition.”

“Is that so?” She matched his posture, her stare still hard.

He was impressed at her mettle, facing up to him without so much as a dagger when he was fully armed and armoured. It was foolish bravado, but he was impressed nonetheless. “The Inquisitor sent us to look for you and your companion – the senior enchanter. Finn?”  She hesitated, then gave a slight nod. “The Grand Enchanter was concerned to hear you had not arrived as expected.”

Ariane blew out a breath, her combative posture easing as she dropped her hands back to her sides. “Well. Thank the Creators.” She looked askance at him. “You are nothing like what I expected from Inquisition. Usually more green and brown about them than even the Dalish.”

Fenris snorted. “I’m a temporary member.” He said it without thinking, and then a small pang of alarm went through him at the idea. Eventually, he would have to leave – wouldn’t he? And what then?

Ariane seemed satisfied enough, and gave him a real smile. “Well, Finn will be relieved to hear we won’t have to walk all the way to Skyhold after all.”

“Oh, yes – the poor dears,” the Revered Mother said, pressing a cup of herbal tea into Cullen’s hands. “Dreadful luck. Came here on foot from Lydes; not a copper to their names. Well what are we here for but to help?” She nodded to herself as she poured more tea.

He’d barely been admitted to the guardhouse before Sera had reappeared, her grin telling him before she said anything that she had a good lead. Sure enough, she’d met a delivery boy in the market place who’d had a broken wrist healed by a mage ‘with a funny accent’ who was staying in the Chantry. She had been less excited about visiting the Chantry herself, claiming he would know much better than her ‘how to sweet talk big-hats’.

As it turned out, talking at all was enough to sway the Revered Mother, who seemed delighted for the company. The Chanter who had led him inside smiled as she accepted her own cup of tea. “Those who steal from their brothers and sisters do harm to their livelihood and to their peace of mind. Our Maker sees this with a heavy heart,” she intoned.

She and the Revered Mother were the only sisters in residence here, which probably explained the Mother's enthusiastic welcome – Chanters did not make great conversationalists. It also likely explained why she had offered the other small room at the rear of the Chantry to a mage and his warrior escort. There were still few enough Chantry sisters who would willingly share a roof with a free mage, even a healer.

The Revered Mother led him out through a side door and into the Chantry’s herb garden. The beds were an overflowing jumble, parsley and sage fighting for space with elfroot and embrium, and a rambling arbor blessing climbed along the bordering wall. There was a gate at the far end of the path that stood open to the village beyond, and a trio of people were gathered just inside it. As Cullen approached, he could see that one woman was clearly injured, her arm around the shoulders of another to support her weight and her face pinched in pain. Her leg was held out awkwardly for the attention of a man seated on a low stool before her. Even from a distance, and with the sun shining down on them, Cullen could see the faint gleam of green shifting against the two womens’ faces – healing magic. 

After a few moments, the light faded out, and the injured woman gave a shaky sigh. She let go of her companion slowly, testing her weight on the damaged limb before standing on her own with a relieved smile.

The man straightened in his seat and held out a palm-length shard of dark brown glass. “You’ll need to get hold of some better boots before you go back to the fields.” His voice was an expressive light tenor, with the crisp consonants of an educated Fereldan. “And the foot will likely be tender for a week or so.”

“Thank you, healer.” His patient bowed deeply, along with her friend, then handed over a few coins before they left through the open gate.

When Finn – and that was who it must be – finally heard the approaching footsteps and stood to face them, Cullen was momentarily taken aback. The only real trace of the gangly boy from Cullen’s distant memory was the deep red hair, though it was longer than Cullen remembered and combed back away from his forehead. Finn now sported a beard and moustache that were probably neatly kept, most of the time, but currently had at least a week’s worth of stubble around the trimmed edges. He was perhaps an inch or two taller than Cullen, and had put on muscle in the years since the Circle tower. Instead of the fussy mage robes and cap Cullen had pictured, Finn wore breeches and a simple shirt beneath a hardened leather jerkin that showed the wear of combat.

He stared at Cullen for a moment, puzzled, before recognition hit and his eyes became wide and wary. “Ser Cullen… ?”

“No.” Cullen shook his head firmly. “I left the Order long ago. I’m with the Inquisition.”

At the final word, Finn’s ruddy eyebrows lifted. “Oh.”

“He’s here to help, dear,” the Mother assured him, handing over the cup of tea she had carried outside. When Finn took it from her, Cullen realised that he was missing the two last fingers on his left hand – severed right where they had once met his palm. The Mother patted Finn’s arm lightly, nodding to him and Cullen in turn as she headed back to the Chantry.

Finn looked a little like he'd seen a ghost. “Wait – you... you’re not just with the Inquisition, you’re its Commander!” He let out a short, startled laugh. “What a small place Thedas is. Last I heard they sent you to Kirkwall, but I haven’t had much news from the Circle since I left. Well, fancy meeting you here.”

“You haven’t had the most orthodox of histories, either,” Cullen pointed out. “A travelling researcher? How did that come about?”

“Oh, yes, well. Advantage of being a companion of the Warden, I s’pose. – not that it was for long. Anyway, healers get a slightly warmer welcome than most mages. Well,” he added, a rueful look touching his features, “perhaps not in Kirkwall, anymore.”

Cullen shook his head. “Perhaps not.”

“I’m sorry we – didn’t quite make it to Skyhold. One of our–”

“Ah, I see they’ve gotten you as well,” said a sharp-eyed elf as she stepped through the gate. A few paces behind her was Fenris, glancing about him as he took in the scene. His impassive expression gave way to a smile, just for a moment, when he saw Cullen.

Finn visibly relaxed as the female elf stepped up beside him. “Just as well,” he said. “My feet are sore enough already, all that walking.”

The new arrival had expressive features and lively grey eyes, and moved with a dancer’s poise and natural grace. There was an air of self-confidence about her. “I am Ariane.”

“Cullen Rutherford,” he responded, giving her a half bow.

“Well, I didn’t get a bow,” Finn mumbled with an expression of mock-consternation. “You know he’s the Commander of their whole military force. Used to be a templar, once upon a time.”

She scowled. “Is that so?” There was an edge to her voice now.

“Not for some years,” Cullen added, remembering Fiona's mention of the rogue templars.

Ariane watched him, lips pursed, as they said their farewells to the Chantry sisters, and went to track down the rest of their party. She never strayed even a step from Finn’s side.

The full story came out at the table in the tavern that night. They had barely sat down before Sera asked, with her characteristic bluntness, what had happened to Finn’s fingers. And when he gave his explanation, it was a story that was almost too familiar.

“They had it in their heads that I was part of a group,” Finn said, his tone light. “They were sure they could make me talk if they were only persistent enough about it.” Cullen would almost have believed that he found it funny were it not for the way his hands trembled around his mug. Ariane held her own mug too tightly, enough that it was just as well they were beaten metal and not anything more brittle. “Stupid really, to go off on my own. But we needed spindleweed, and I didn’t realise how bad things had gotten out there.” He dropped his head down, looking at his mutilated hand. “Bloody templars.”

“It was easy enough to track them down, once I worked out that he’d gone to the river. They weren't bothering to hide their tracks... thought no one would pick a fight with the big scary templars.” Ariane’s grey eyes were like flint as she spoke. “I dealt with them. But I was too late to stop it.”

Finn flexed his hands on the mug. “They definitely would have killed me, once they had all the fingers,” he said, matter-of-fact. “So I think you were right on time, honestly.”

Ariane squeezed his arm.

“I am sorry,” Cullen said, his throat tight. “Too many of the Order took to such excesses.” he wanted to say that he didn't understand it, but the worse truth was that he did: he could too well remember the fear and hatred he harboured for far too long. He did not think he would ever have descended to such actions, but he was a different man back in Kirkwall. Would that man have considered what the rogue templars did so far outside his duty? Mages cannot be treated like people, he had said, once. He could still remember the appalled look on Hawke’s face – for all that the man had eventually sided with the Order.

“An awful lot of mages did an awful lot of really nasty things, as well,” Finn pointed out.

“War isn’t pretty,” Bull rumbled, a slight scowl on his scarred face. “Especially not when there’s demons and lyrium and shit involved.”

“Plenty of mages – and templars – worse off than me out there. Plenty who didn’t make it through at all.” Finn shrugged, looking around the table. “And there I’ve gone and ruined the mood. Not much of a first impression I’m making.”

“Eh, most stories that end with fingers being lost aren’t cheerful ones,” Bull said easily.

“I dunno, yours wasn’t cheerful, but it wasn’t snotty-cry dreadful like that,” Sera piped up.

“What about Rocky’s brother?” Dalish suggested, smiling as she leaned her folded elbows on the tabletop. "Does that count?"

Krem snorted. “That wasn’t cheerful – just plain idiotic.”

“Funny, though.” Dalish turned her smile on the Iron Bull. “The chief tells it much better than I could.”

As the table relaxed again and the others listened to the Bull launch into a tale of a demolition job in Orzammar and a dwarf who misplaced a very necessary end cap, Cullen noticed that Fenris sat silent beside him. Some pieces of white hair had come loose from its tie, draping across his face, but he didn't seem to notice – he was clearly lost in thought as he stared down at the table before him. Cullen edged closer. “Is everything all right?” he murmured.

Fenris didn’t respond for a moment, a muscle flexing in his jaw. Finally, he sighed. “I – it’s fine,” he glanced up at the others at the table as a burst of laughter rippled through them.

It clearly wasn’t fine, and Cullen’s stomach sank as he took in the evidence – the tense posture, the distant expression. Something had gone wrong. But there was nothing he could do about it, not here, and so he forced himself to at least try to put it out of his mind and join in the banter around the tavern table.

Chapter Text

The innkeeper had been very happy for the patronage – it had been a tumultuous few years in the Dales with the Civil War raging around them, and only their proximity to Halamshiral had kept the town in relative prosperity. The man had been even happier when he realised that they came on behalf of the Inquisition, with the Commander of the Inquisition Forces himself at their head. The upper level of the inn stood empty, so they had been offered the run of it for the cost of the three rooms Krem had originally asked for. When they arrived, only slightly the worse for wear after their stint at the tavern, there were several servants hurrying up and down the stairs carting jugs of hot water and armfuls of towels.

“The innkeeper offered baths – there’s a tub in each room.” Krem ran his hand over the longer hair on top of his head and grimaced. “I wasn’t about to turn him down.”

“You’re getting too used to all the soft living at Skyhold, Krempuff,” the Iron Bull rumbled.

Krem rolled his eyes, but then a somewhat wistful expression came over his face. “I am pretty fond of the baths.”

Though most of the villagers wore the practical garments of men and women who worked for a living, the innkeeper looked straight out of the avenues of Val Royeaux. His fitted doublet had puffed shoulders and fussy embroidery down the front, and was paired with tight breeches and knee-high boots. The whole look was completed by a silky Orlesian headdress and a painted mask which, combined, hid all of his hair and most of his face from view. Cullen was uncomfortably reminded of the handsy Marquis who had followed him around the Winter Palace – though it was true the masks made it all the more difficult to tell one Orlesian from another.

“Commander Cullen, I presume?” The innkeeper bowed at the waist. “I am Paverre, the proprietor of this establishment. Very privileged to have members of the Inquisition to stay with us. We owe you much for your intervention in the civil war." He was quite softly spoken, in contrast to what Cullen had expected from the outfit.

Cullen inclined his head. “The privilege is ours, Paverre.”

“The baths are being prepared now, as you see.” The man nodded towards a girl carrying a pot of steaming water from the kitchen. “Then if you are so inclined, there is supper available at your leisure. Cook has prepared an Antivan fish stew tonight.”

“Much appreciated, thank you.” Cullen’s eyes stole to Fenris as the Innkeeper bowed again. They had not shared all that many meals, but enough that Cullen knew the elf’s dislike of fish. Fenris showed no reaction, and didn’t meet his eye – he still seemed oddly preoccupied, and Cullen turned back to Paverre with a sinking feeling.

As they trailed up the stairs to work out the sleeping arrangements, Ariane tapped Cullen’s elbow. “I just wanted to say thanks for putting us up,” she said. “The Chantry sisters were very kind to offer their help, but it was a little awkward for a Dalish elf. All that reciting the Chant… and statues of Andraste on fire.” She shuddered delicately.

Cullen breathed out a laugh. “Yes, those were never my favourite either.” He turned more fully to look at her as they reached the top of the stairs. “And it’s the least we can do. After all, you’re only out here at the Inquisitor’s request.”

She nodded. “We are happy to help, honestly we are. Despite everything, it’s been nice to be out on the road again. Feels a bit like home, now.”

Finn took her hand in his as he moved up beside her, his lips quirking in a half-smile. But when he turned to Cullen, his expression was all serious consideration. “I meant to ask – how is the Champion? Should we have left tonight?”

“No… we wouldn’t have gotten far, not before nightfall,” Cullen reasoned. “Better to start fresh in the morning.”

“Be prepared, the Commander here seems to be channelling some fond memories of forced marches with the pace he’s setting,” Dalish added as she passed. She, Sera and Krem were exploring, ducking in and out of the available rooms and chattering like excited children.

“Hawke didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger,” Cullen said, but then inclined his head and added, “His condition has been very changeable, though, so it’s hard to say. I... will probably set a fairly brisk pace, yes,” he conceded. “I’m concerned what might have happened in our absence.”

Finn looked as though he wanted to say more, but he only gave a somewhat brittle smile and turned his attention to the hallway. “We have all of this to ourselves?”

Sera was heading back from her inspection at a scampering run. “There’s five rooms,” she reported. “Figure the lovebirds can share, and I’ll bunk in with Krem or Dalish. Rooms’re so much bigger than mine at Skyhold would feel weird to sleep in one all on my own anyways.” She winked at Cullen. “You should definitely take the end room, Cully-wully.”

A maid approached hesitantly, and curtsied low when she caught Cullen’s eye. “If you please, messeres, the baths are ready at your leisure.”

“Aren’t we still one room short?” Finn asked, frowning. “Who else is sharing?”

Cullen didn’t trust himself to answer, still not confident he and Fenris could be classed as ‘lovebirds’. He thanked the maid and gathered his pack and Fenris’ from the pile that had been brought up from their horses. Then he led the quiet elf to the room at the end of the hall.

“What, you didn’t mean… ?” came Finn’s voice from behind him. “Really?” His voice dropped into a stage whisper, but was still clearly audible when he added: “I never would have guessed Cullen was – you know – that way inclined.”

“Very tactful, Finn,” Ariane said dryly.

Fenris was barely listening to the others. He had felt dazed, unsettled, since listening to the mage’s account of how the templars… tortured him, there was no other word for it. For all that Fenris had endured in his life as a slave, he had at least escaped relatively intact.

It was only at Cullen’s low whistle that he looked up to take in their surroundings. It was lavish, fit for any nobility who might pass through, all gleaming dark wood and pale silk. A massive four-posted bed stood in the centre of the room, bordered by heavy curtains in silver brocade. In one corner sat a clawed brass bathtub, with a stand bearing towels and bottles of unguents beside.

Cullen closed the door behind them and then leaned against it, face solemn as he regarded Fenris. “Are you… quite certain you want me here?”

That shook Fenris out of his strange reverie, enough to narrow his eyes at the other man. “I'm certain. You asked already, more than once.”

Cullen held his gaze. “Then what is troubling you?”

Fenris scowled – he wasn’t even sure at what. He turned away, pacing towards the window. “It was that Finn. His dealings with the rogue templars.” The drapes were drawn, but he pulled one slightly aside to look down at the darkened town. “I dismissed the mage’s – Anders’ – cause, in Kirkwall. I believed mages corrupted by their power – that any censure they received they brought on themselves.” He pulled the drapes closed gain, but he didn’t turn back to face Cullen. “I had seen little enough evidence of the supposed mistreatment of mages when I was in Tevinter. Merrill was a blood mage, Anders an abomination, reason enough for them to be hated and feared. And everywhere we turned in Kirkwall we saw more of the same. I thought Anders’ stories of his time at the Circle... exaggerated.” His hand tightened around the edge of the fabric he still held. “It was unjust of me," he said, and realised even as he did the irony of the word he'd chosen. "I will never be... comfortable with magic, but I was wrong to let fear and resentment blind me for so long." He paced to the end of the window frame and stopped there. He couldn't seem to make himself look back at Cullen. "I wonder how much I was shaped by Danarius. How different would I have been, without his influence on my life? What would Anders have been, without the Circle and the Templars hanging over him?”

"The Chantry was wrong,” Cullen said slowly. “Their treatment of mages and of templars. I don't have the solution, but I'm sure the Chantry didn't have it either. And I know too well how fear can shape you – change you. I saw the evidence of Meredith's abuses for years, and I convinced myself of their necessity. I believe – I hope – I would have seen her for what she was earlier, if not for Kinloch.”

Fenris finally did turn at that. “Kinloch?” he repeated, frowning.

Cullen tipped his head to scratch at his scalp, the set of his mouth grim as his eyes slid away from Fenris'. “We haven’t spoken of it, but –" He hesitated, glancing up at Fenris almost apologetically. “Perhaps... perhaps after the bath. Do you want to go first?”

Fenris was still watching Cullen, and almost surprised himself when he suggested: “Could we not both fit?”

Cullen raised his eyebrows, but he did summon a smile from somewhere.

It took some doing – and proceedings were very nearly interrupted when Cullen finally finished removing all his armour and Fenris realised just how very long it had been since that night at Redcliffe – but eventually they managed to fold themselves into the tub together. They sat with their feet overlapping and their knees almost touching as they washed. At least the cold weather had kept the dust and grime to a minimum. Fenris used one of the jugs to rinse his soapy hair, and when he finished brushing the water from his eyes he looked up to find Cullen watching him with a slightly glazed look.

“Sorry.” Cullen cleared his throat and looked away, a flush spreading instantly up his throat and face. “Maker, Fenris, how are you real?”

Fenris laughed, soft and low in his throat. He leaned forward, shifting until he could slide up against Cullen, his chest against Cullen’s muscular stomach and his own stomach pressed... well, it was immediately obvious just how much Cullen enjoyed looking at him. He chuckled again and kissed the damp skin over Cullen’s clavicle.

“Fenris.” Cullen groaned softly as Fenris shifted over him. “I… really do think we should talk, before anything else.” He didn’t sound enthused by the idea, and Fenris was tempted to see how easy it would be to distract the man from his intentions. But for all that had passed between them, he still knew so little of Cullen's life beyond the history they shared in Kirkwall.

Cullen hadn’t asked after his own past – which was proof enough of someone else with a past best forgotten. That and the nightmares, more frequent than Fenris’ own. If he was ready to talk about it, the least Fenris could do was listen.

So he eased himself back away from Cullen and into his own place again, and he waited.

Cullen was quiet for a moment, the tips of his fingers stirring the bath water, and then he blew out a breath it sounded like he’d been holding. “My first assignment as a templar was at the Ferelden Circle. It was during the Blight, and one of the senior enchanters – Uldred – made a bid for power against the First Enchanter. When he realised things weren’t going to go his way, Uldred attacked." Cullen dragged his wet hand back over his hair, smoothing the damp curls away from his face. "He summoned a pride demon to fight for him – but instead it possessed him, and the next thing we knew there were demons and abominations everywhere.” Cullen grimaced. “The Knight-Commander and those who had been on the lower levels escaped, and barricaded the door to keep the threat contained. One of the other senior enchanters rallied some apprentices together to protect the youngest mages, set up a defensive position that held – but they all thought the rest of the tower lost.”

“Where were you in all this?” Fenris asked, leaning forward. The Blight had been more than ten years earlier – Cullen must have been barely out of his teens.

“I was standing guard on the upper level when it all began. There was no indication that Uldred would go so far.” He wrapped his arms around his knees, hands clasped together in the middle. “We fought, but there were too many of them. The demons backed some of us into a trap – they tried to break our minds, to bind us to them. They succeeded with the others. They came far too close with me.” He sat unnaturally still, his body held rigid.

“Venhedis, Cullen,” Fenris breathed. He had fought his share of abominations and demons, but he had no wish to imagine the horror of being held captive by them. Fenris was reminded of the templar recruits that had been given over to demons by the blood mage cult in Kirkwall – and Cullen’s horrified face when Wilmod had become an abomination right before them. It must have seemed like his worst nightmares come to life. “How did you escape?”

“I didn't," Cullen admitted, with an apologetic shrug. "The Hero of Ferelden saved me. I didn’t believe it was really her at first.” Cullen shook his head. “I had something of a youthful infatuation with her when she was at the Circle, and the demons had been quick to draw on that. But she killed the abominations and rescued the First Enchanter, and all the mages who had not been turned. She saved all of us who still could be.”

Fenris could sense Cullen wasn't finished - and how could he be? You couldn't truly be saved from such an event. It couldn't be undone by a hero on a shining steed.

“I wanted the Circle annulled.” Cullen turned his face up towards Fenris, pain evident in his features. “I saw the risk of possession in the face of every mage. The Hero had been a Circle mage herself, I could not possibly have expected her to endorse it. But I was furious when she advised the Knight-Commander to let the mages live.”

Fenris shifted closer, reached out to cover Cullen’s scarred hand with his own lyrium-lined one. “And after this, they thought to send you to Kirkwall, of all places?”

Cullen nodded slowly. “Yes, where I saw blood mages around every corner, and was too often right, and too harsh when I was not. And the Knight-Commander let her own prejudices run rampant as she went slowly mad.”

Fenris had barely been able to reconcile the concerned and caring Commander who had rescued him with the aloof, prickly knight-captain they had met in Kirkwall. But now he was beginning to understand a little more. “With such a history, your conduct was remarkably restrained.”

Cullen shook his head, his expression full of self-recrimination. “Giving me any position of responsibility there was like... putting a man terrified of animals in charge of a menagerie.”

Fenris’ hand slid up to grip Cullen’s bicep, until finally the man did turn to look at him. “You did far better than I would have, believe me.”

“But that Circle was annulled, in the end. And I welcomed it.” Cullen grimaced at his own words.

Fenris let his eyes skate over Cullen’s resigned face and defeated posture, and then around the lavish room, and he sighed. It seemed a waste to spend their night in such a place rehashing old history, but after such a confession he knew he couldn’t keep quiet about his own past. What’s more – he found himself wanting to tell it, if only to reassure the man that he was not alone with his demons.

He hauled himself up to standing with a rush of water and stepped out of the tub, reaching out for one of the towels from the stand.

“Let me tell you about Seheron.”

When the familiar pale barrier closed around Cullen once more, it was not his templar brethren who stood with him. Instead, it was Fenris, his familiar black armour covered with blood and sand, his hands drenched with viscera to the elbow. He was trembling visibly, his gaze fixed and far-off.

Fenris woke early, to find the room still fully dark. The heavy drapes permitted only the barest amount of moonlight to pass between them, but elf eyes were more sensitive than human ones and even in the blackness he could see that Cullen was awake. The other man stared at the canopy above them, his breathing fast and shallow. “Are you all right?” Fenris asked.

“Sorry – did I wake you?” Cullen’s voice was gravelly with sleep. He scrubbed one hand across his face. “Just the usual.”

If it had been Cullen that woke him, Fenris was almost grateful for it. His own dreams had not been pleasant: he had been fleeing endless pursuers – slavers, blood mages, demons – through a landscape that seemed a shifting blend of all the places he had lived. Hardly surprising, after the previous night’s conversation, but hardly enjoyable either.

He shuffled closer, pulling the blankets up higher beneath his chin. Obligingly, Cullen lifted one arm, wrapping it around Fenris as the elf settled against him. Cullen turned to press his lips to Fenris’ forehead, the long stubble on his jaw scraping a little. “Do you know the hour?” Fenris asked.

“No.” Cullen lifted his head a little, peering at the line of soft moonlight between the drapes. “Early. Too early for anyone to be about, and in a farming village that means well before dawn.”

“Hmm.” Fenris slid his arm across the undulating musculature of Cullen’s chest. “Are you tired?”

“No. I don’t need all that much sleep. But you should get some more rest while we have a bed available...” Cullen trailed off as Fenris’ hand drifted lower, down his bare stomach.

“I can think of better uses for the bed,” Fenris murmured. “Can’t you?”

He felt as much as heard Cullen swallow.

“Perhaps.” Cullen turned to face Fenris, nudging forward in the darkness until their lips met.

“Yes, Ariane really did get told off by a dog,” Finn said, peeling another potato as easily as any kitchen hand.

Beside him, the Iron Bull was adding a liberal palm-full of a livid orange spice to their meal to “liven it up”, from a battered pouch he’d extracted from his pack. Fenris watched with no small amount of interest: the aroma was familiar, nostalgic in a way that few things from Tevinter were for him. Even in the Free Marches, they did not understand the subtlety of Tevinter curries and sauces, and the Fereldan palate was too bland even to try.

“In fairness, he was a very uptight dog,” Ariane retorted, testing the final line on the tent she was erecting. She straightened to look at Finn with a smirk. “And you were far too finicky in those days. I’ll never forget that battle in the Thaig – you didn’t even have to do any of the actual fighting, but you still swooned like a storybook maiden.”

“Well,” Finn began, colouring, “that was a very exhausting ritual, and...” He threw his hands up in defeat as Ariane raised her eyebrows at him. “Oh, fine. I was terrible with blood back then. You win.”

“Of course I do,” she said with a smug nod.

Fenris was distracted from their banter by – he wasn’t sure what. A sound, a low rumbling, off in the mid-distance. He glanced up sharply, listening hard, and stared out through the fading light that filtered through the patchy thicket of trees around them.

For a few breaths, all he could hear was the scrape of Finn’s dagger, but then he picked up another distant sound; a heavy grunt, like a large animal.

One look around the camp told him that at least Ariane and Dalish had heard it too that time – both women sat still, eyes distant as they craned to hear. Sera showed no sign of a reaction, but then she never seemed to pay attention to the sharper senses her elven heritage bestowed unless it involved archery or pranks. Dalish climbed carefully to her feet, stepping softly forwards to stand beside Ariane as she listened.

Cullen may not have heard it himself, but no one rose to his position without strong powers of observation: he realised something was amiss. He moved to stand at Fenris’ shoulder. “What is it?” His voice was a murmur.

“Not sure.” Whatever it was, it was coming closer – Fenris’ ears caught what was definitely a growl, and a growl belonging to something big. Ariane’s hand went up to the hilt of one of the new blades they had bought, her frame tensing; Finn set his dagger down, seeing her body language.

Now the Iron Bull was on his feet, too, his ankle brace clinking. The Tal-Vashoth’s nostrils flared as he sniffed the air, and then he let out a soft growl of his own. “Giant,” he muttered.

Fenris peered harder through the thin screen of trees that separated their campsite from the edge of the thicket. He hadn’t seen a giant since leaving mainland Tevinter, all those years ago, but a creature like that was hard to forget. The name was apt enough, he knew that much.

The ground trembled, almost imperceptibly, and the giant let out a rumbling bellow that even the humans could not possibly miss.

“Weapons,” Cullen said, quiet but firm as he turned to face the group as a whole. “We can’t leave a giant to roam this close to the Highway. I’ll try to hold its attention.” He moved to their cache of tack and saddlebags, retrieving his shield and the lion helm that he usually carried fixed to his saddle-horn. “Sera, Dalish – keep to the trees. Aim above the waist only. Finn, how are you with barriers?”

Finn nodded, shouldering the modified walking stick that had been the closest thing to a staff they could procure in the village. “Brilliant, naturally.” He winked at Ariane, who rolled her eyes.

Cullen gave a nod. “Fenris, Bull, Krem – try to flank it, cripple it if possible. Ariane –”

There was another faint tremor and a growl that almost sounded like guttural speech, closer now.

“Definitely coming this way,” Bull muttered, grabbing his axe from where he had left it leaning against a tree bole.

“Where do you want me, Commander?” Ariane asked, taking a step towards him.

Cullen hesitated, but only for a breath. “How are you with a bow?” he asked as he lifted his shield. Fenris could see his conundrum: they were melee-heavy and short on ranged firepower, and her short swords put her at a distinct disadvantage against a beast as big and aggressive as a giant.

“Good enough to hit a target that big,” she said, eyeing the trees.

Sera had already retrieved her spare bow and was stringing it with admirable efficiency, propping the nock against her foot and using her body weight to bend the wood behind one leg.

The horses had heard the giant now, too. Cullen’s destrier stood fast, trained against any threat, but its dark eyes were wide in their sockets. The others pawed the earth nervously and shifted back as far from the threat as their tethers would allow. Fenris hoped they didn’t break free – they were big animals, and he didn’t fancy being caught beneath the hooves of one if it panicked. Especially the cart horse Bull rode, which was already snorting and rolling its eyes in fear.

Then, through the trees, Fenris caught sight of a huge dark shape shambling up over the hill towards them.

Cullen re-checked his shield and dropped his visor, before nodding to them all. “Aim for the tendons,” he advised the warriors.

“I’m gonna get an arrow right in its gross beady eye this time,” Sera declared cheerfully as they moved out. Beside her, Ariane was testing the draw of the bow with a determined look on her lean face.

Cullen actually laughed – low and far too relaxed for a man about to deliberately antagonise a giant. Fenris wanted to follow him, but he shook off the urge and angled his path further out along the tree line to wait for a good opportunity to flank the giant.

The immense beast had stilled, just the other side of the hill, peering down at something it held. Cullen didn’t hesitate for a moment; he strode out into the open, silhouetted by the last vestiges of the sunlight angling across the landscape. A blue-white globe formed around his form – one of Finn’s barriers – and that was enough to draw the giant’s attention. It threw its prize aside and lurched in their direction, long legs carrying it rapidly over the crest of the hill and down the slope towards them.

It was as hideous as Fenris’ dim memories had told him: over three times the height of a man, its coarse grey skin partly covered in patchy dark hair and riddled with bulbous growths. Its head was disproportionately small, but bore massive tusks that jutted out in such a way as to prop the beast’s mouth permanently open and bare its jagged teeth. Its single eye was fixed on Cullen with a predator’s intent.

As it closed in it broke into a shambling run, then swiped at him with one massive hand. He dodged back just in time, slashing at its trunk-like wrist and leaving a shallow gash. The giant reeled back, grabbing at its bleeding arm. “Now!” Cullen roared.

Two arrows arched from the thicket; one glanced off the giant’s shoulder, while the other buried itself in the soft flesh above the single eye. A fireball soared from another direction to explode against the giant’s chest; the beast bellowed its anger, taking another staggering step back.

Fenris was already bolting from cover. He felt the distantly familiar ache of magic’s touch as Finn shielded him; it was quickly lost in the keener pain when he activated his brands. The world around him seemed to stream hazy light and shadow as he moved through the space between reality and the Fade; he heard Bull’s startled curse from somewhere to the side of him, and then took a deep breath and let the burning of the brands carry him fully into the Veil.

When he plunged back out, he was behind the giant – Fenris could smell the stench that rolled off the creature: sour sweat and filthy hair mixed with rotting meat. He swung the Blade of Mercy like an axe at the tendon behind the ankle, thick and gnarled as an old tree root. The strike cut deep, nearly deep enough to sever it, and the giant gave an indignant roar; Fenris heard Cullen’s shout and the thud of a dull object striking something hard. Fenris hoped it was a shield, but there was no time to worry about Cullen – the only way to help him was to get the giant down. He wrenched the weapon back, sending out an arc of dark blood, and stepped into the next strike with a grunt of effort.

The second blow bisected the cord of tendon, making the giant stumble heavily and howl in protest. Krem darted in and brought his maul crashing down onto the top of one of the creature’s massive feet, with an audible crack of bone. The Bull snarled as he swung his double-headed axe hard into the side of the giant’s calf. Blood spurted from the wound as he wrenched the weapon free – he had struck an artery.

Two arrows protruded from its neck, to add to the one already dripping a sheen of blood into its eye. Another arrow flew from the trees and this time struck true – it sunk deep into the giant’s single eye. Sera’s whoop of triumph was lost beneath the giant’s pained bellow. Finally, the creature dropped to its knees, clutching at its bloody face.

As soon as he saw the opening, Fenris rushed it again, using his momentum to ram the Blade into the softer flesh of the giant’s lower back. It punched through the giant’s thick hide and sank deep into the creature’s entrails. Fenris was almost hauled off his feet when the giant twisted to grab at the fresh source of pain. The shield surrounding him surged, flickered and faded – giving him just enough time to phase once more before the beast’s hand could reach him. The giant scrabbling at his ethereal form caused only an unpleasant sensation of pressure, before it gave up and turned back to Cullen.

“Fenris, let go!” Krem shouted, stepping in again with his maul held at the ready.

Fenris scrambled aside, right as Krem swung the heavy weapon around to strike the pommel of Fenris’ greatsword like a hammer on a nail; the force drove the Blade of Mercy through the giant until only the hilt protruded, even the flattened guard cutting into the skin.

Groaning, the giant hunched forward, taking the sword with it. The flex of its broad back forced the blade partly out of the ragged wound, so that gouts of blood flowed down its back.

It was a mortal wound, adding to a dozen bleeding injuries the giant had already sustained; it would not be long, no matter what they did. It gave a long, guttural moan and lashed out blindly one final time, lunging two-handed at Cullen.

Fenris yelled a warning, but he need not have bothered: even as Cullen scrambled out of the way, his shield up, another blue-white barrier gleamed into existence around him. The giant’s hands slipped off the barrier’s glimmering surface.

It’s second groan was cut off – Bull, heedless of the danger, stepped up beside its outstretched arms and swung his axe into its throat with a grunt of effort. The giant crouched further forward, its hands jerking unsteadily up to its neck as it tried to drag in air through its ruined windpipe. The warriors backed away as it collapsed onto its front, still pawing soundlessly at its neck.

And then finally, the giant was still.

Bull was grinning, coated in gore and sweat as he was. “Krem! That move – what a move!” He laughed aloud, slapping his equally-bloody lieutenant on the back hard enough to make Krem stagger forward. “Sure, you might owe Fenris a new sword, but worth every copper.”

Fenris had forgotten the Blade entirely in favour of finding Cullen. His brands ached, as they always did after he used them, but his chest was tight and his limbs felt trembly in a way that was new: watching Cullen face down the giant with only a few thin sheets of metal to protect him had shaken him more than any threat to himself could. Accompanying Hawke, it had always been Fenris himself who had borne the brunt of the attack. He would put himself into harm’s way without a second thought, but to watch someone he…

Fenris stopped, eyes wide. He what?

Cullen came over to him, his visor raised. He was sweating beneath his plate, his hair lank and damp, but other than a few drops of the giant’s blood over his armour and a sizeable dent in the burnished surface of his silverite shield, he looked remarkably unscathed.

“You are unhurt?” Fenris asked, clutching at Cullen’s metal-encased wrists.

“I am – though I just about had a heart attack when it grabbed at you like that. I had no idea you could go –” he made a vague gesture.

Fenris smiled thinly. “I have a few tricks up my sleeve, yet.” He realised his gauntlets were leaving bloody smear marks over Cullen’s; letting his gaze pan further down to his own body, he saw just how thoroughly coated he was. “Well. That was a waste of a bath.”

Finn had wandered over to look at the giant, the sleeve of his shirt pressed firmly over his nose. His voice was somewhat muffled when he spoke: “So, I’m rather glad we didn’t come across that on our own.”

Ariane had found what the giant had dropped – a large, greasy hessian sack. She grimaced as she extracted an Orlesian army issue helm, which appeared to still have the previous owner’s head inside it. “Agreed.”

Bull had taken hold of Fenris’ sword and, muscles straining, pulled it free with a wet rush. He almost lost his balance when the unexpected weight of it hit him, and he gave Fenris an impressed glance before stooping to inspect the weapon more closely. “How does it look?” Fenris called.

“Needs sharpening – definitely hit the bone,” Bull mused. “And ah –” he made a face, looking up from the flattened pommel to Fenris. “Hilt might need some work. But it’s quite a sword. Would take more than that to ruin it.”

Krem, standing nearby with his hands propped on the haft of his maul, shot Fenris a sheepish look. “Sorry. I don’t normally go in for flashy...”

The elf shrugged. “It worked.”

“It was awesome!” Bull crowed, and offered the sword hilt-first to Fenris.

“Here, let me.” Krem reached out instead, letting his maul fall to the grass. “I’ll clean it,” he offered. “Least I can do after using it as a stake.”

Fenris inclined his head. He usually preferred to clean his own weapons, but they were not usually quite so... thoroughly coated. “I would appreciate it.”

Finn was looking at the three of them in clear distaste, pale behind the sleeve still pressed to his face. “I know it’s not quite the same as a heated Orlesian bathtub, but ah – is there a stream or something around here? I'm not sure giant blood smells much better than the giant itself.”

Chapter Text

In the familiar, snow-laden valley that led up and across the bridge to Skyhold, Fenris became even quieter than usual. He was so tense that even his mount was unsettled, her tail swishing and her ears sitting back as they made their way up the last steep incline to the barbican. Cullen reached across to touch the elf’s hand where it gripped the reins too tightly.

“Sorry.” Fenris let go with first one hand, then the other, flexing them inside their clawed gauntlets. Then he peered up at the fortress above them and let a slow breath out. "What if Finn cannot help?”

Cullen wanted to reassure him, but he couldn't be confident of their success either. Hawke’s condition was unique, and they didn’t really know if it could be reversed. A spirit healer would have the best chance of success – but there was no guarantee even such power would be enough.

Cullen straightened in the saddle, taking in the familiar walls and towers of Skyhold; rather than intensifying his concern, as it seemed to for Fenris, the sight strengthened his belief in their chances. The Inquisition had achieved miracles enough before. "If he can't, we will find another way.”

Revem and Dorian waited just inside the main gate, and with them Hawke’s friend Merrill. The blood mage, part of Cullen insisted, a part that still itched for the lyrium in his veins that would allow him to perform a decent Silence if it was needed. No matter how friendly and open her demeanour, he had too much reason to fear and disdain blood magic to ever forget what she was.

There was a ragtag crowd gathered, as there usually was when the Inquisitor appeared in public for any period of time. Whether through devotion or curiosity, he attracted attention from all quarters.

Fenris was half out of the saddle before his mount had even stopped, thrusting his reins into the hands of one of the waiting grooms. “How is he?”

“About the same really. Still sleeping a lot, and he has an awful cough,” Merrill said. Then she smiled faintly. “Bored. Telling everyone who comes into earshot how bored – impatient for you to all come back. It’s hard to see him unhappy, you know. He was always cheerful, in his way, no matter how dreadful things got.”

Cullen probably wouldn’t have called Hawke cheerful, exactly – he always thought the constant sarcasm and jokes were more of a deflection than a true reflection of the Champion's mood.

“But we have some more ideas on how to help - assuming of course we're all assembled,” Dorian said. His eyes found Finn, as the rangy spirit healer handed off his own reins and joined the assembled group. Dorian gave an elegant little bow with one hand tucked into the small of his back. “Senior Enchanter Finn, I assume?”

Finn nodded, eyeing Dorian curiously. “You assume correctly.”

“I am Dorian Pavus, formerly of Minrathous, at your service. This is Merrill, an associate of the Champion,” Dorian nodded towards the elven girl, who waved brightly. Then he gestured towards Revem, who stood quietly beside them. “And this is Revem Lavellan, the Inquisitor.”

“Honoured to meet you all.” Finn gave a deeper bow than Dorian’s had been, and had to shove back his mane of red hair when he straightened. “You have worked miracles for Thedas, Inquisitor,” he said with open admiration.

“It's mostly good luck, and better help,” Revem said modestly, his smiling blue-eyed gaze flicking to Dorian for a moment. “Welcome to Skyhold, Senior Enchanter. Always a pleasure to meet another redhead.” He tucked the loose side of his own hair – returned to his customary half-braided style – back behind one pointed ear as he spoke. “Thank you both for coming – I am sorry your journey ended up so difficult. To run into a giant, too; not sure I’ve seen one that close to the Highway before.” He nodded to Cullen, who returned it; Revem must have received the bird they had sent ahead, and the report it carried.

Finn shook his head. "I suppose it was just as well we encountered those thieves, all told. I'm pretty confident Ariane and I would have found a way through that thing, but it would not have been near so tidy."

“Yes, I always kind of thought these enormous swords some men like to carry were mostly just compensating for something," Ariane added, flashing a grin towards Fenris as she stepped into place beside Finn’s shoulder. “As it turns out, more practical than they might seem. Clan Lavellan? You are a ways from home, Inquisitor."

"Well, Skyhold is home, now," he said, glancing up at the keep behind them. "Though I admit, it is strange to be in once place for this long. Andaran Atish’an.”

She ducked her head respectfully. “Aneth ara, hahren.”

Revem blinked. “I don’t feel old enough to be anyone’s hahren.”

“Who else could you be, in this place?” she asked.

He grimaced, but made no argument.

Bull took the moment’s pause to cut in. “Hey, Boss. Krem and I need to go check in with the Chargers," he rumbled, jerking one grey thumb at the tavern behind him. "I assume you won’t be needing us for any magical rituals."

“No, probably just a pint of blood – two at the most,” Dorian said, his expression thoughtful and perfectly serious.

Bull’s one eye widened for barely a heartbeat, before he scowled. “Asshole.”

“Dismissed, Bull,” Revem confirmed. “I appreciate the help getting our guests this far. And there’ll be a bonus in your usual stipend for the giant.”

The Bull gave a chuckle. “Excellent. Drinks are on the Inquisitor, then.” Sera, Dalish and Krem trailed the huge Tal-Vashoth towards the tavern; the crowd of attendants, horses and onlookers parted readily before him.

Revem turned back to the reduced group of travellers. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering lunch served in the small meeting room off the garden to discuss possible courses of action. You are all welcome to come - I could use one or two non-mages present, so I can understand at least some of the conversation.”

“We found an old Tevinter ritual in one of the tomes from the Gallows,” Merrill said eagerly. “But of course we’ll need our new healer friend’s help to see if we can adapt it without the blood magic.”

Cullen frowned at the mention of blood magic – especially from Merrill – but Fenris visibly recoiled at her words. "What?”

“It’s so fascinating… it uses something called ambrosia, made from this incredibly rare flower – how Elan knew where we could get some this far from the Silent Plains I don’t know,” Merrill went on, her enthusiasm seeming to blind her to the deepening scowl on Fenris’ features.

Dorian was well aware, however, his glance flicking between the two elves as she spoke. He took the first opportunity to interrupt her: “It would need to be heavily adapted,” he stressed. “And we have no idea if it will work at all, not before we’ve had a chance to look over it with the Senior Enchanter.”

“Does Hawke know about this?” Fenris asked, not looking any more receptive to the idea.

“Oh no, not yet,” Merrill said. “It would be too cruel to get his hopes up, if it turns out it all comes to nothing. Don’t worry…” She reached out to put a hand on Fenris’ arm, but the warrior stepped back and angled his frame away from her before she could make contact. She turned the gesture into one of supplication, smoothly enough that it was clear she'd suspected Fenris would not allow the contact. “We’ll tell him all about it once we know enough to say if we’re onto something useful.”

Fenris looked hard at them both in turn. “Fine," he relented, though he didn’t look any happier about it. “I will not raise it with him.” He abruptly stalked off towards the stairs, shoulders hunched.

“Is he always so cheery?” Finn mused, staring at the elf’s retreating back.

Dorian sighed, facing Cullen with a rueful smile. “I’m sorry – we should have known arcane Tevinter ritual magic would not go over well.”

“I am always saying the wrong thing with him,” Merrill said, and bit her bottom lip worriedly. “You’d think after all this time I’d know to hold my tongue about blood magic or Tevinter or… really any of the things I said!”

“If it will work, I’m sure he will come around,” Cullen reasoned. “He wants to see Hawke recover more than anyone.” He thought for a moment about following after Fenris, but he did not wish to intrude. “I – do not think I will attend, Inquisitor. I am sure there are a dozen urgent matters requiring my attention by now,” he reasoned, though he was unable to sound enthusiastic about the prospect.

“Most likely,” Revem said, and gave a sympathetic grimace. “And mine too. I almost miss winter; the weather was abysmal, but I'd put up with worse for the peace and quiet.” He straightened, business-like once more. “If anything promising comes of the meeting, Dorian or I can find you afterwards and fill you in.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor.”

Cullen made his way back to his office, trying to walk with purpose, and managed to only glance once in the direction Fenris had gone.

Hawke was seated at Varric’s table, in a high-backed armchair that must have been brought in especially for his use.

It was a relief to see him; Fenris wasn’t sure it would ever cease to be wondrous, that the man they had all thought long dead had returned. Even if that wonder eventually did fade, being around Hawke would probably still always feel a little like coming home.

Hawke looked much the same as he had when they left; pale and thin, but smiling above his neatly trimmed beard. He was sitting up properly, at least, a blanket draped over his lap despite his proximity to the fire.

His eyes went to Fenris immediately, and his smile broadened.

“Broody!” Varric called. “Have a seat.”

Fenris did so, drawing up a chair beside Hawke. The rogue glanced sideways at him, eyes half-closed and a smirk on his lips. It was an expression that, Fenris knew, he would once have found irresistible – despite Hawke’s current state of health – and Hawke knew as well. But the familiar spark of excitement did not come. Instead, Fenris found himself rolling his eyes.

Hawke actually laughed. “Sweet Maker, he really is done with me.”

“I don’t know what he saw in you, anyway,” Varric said, shrugging.

“Ouch,” Hawke said, bringing one hand up to his chest with an expression of exaggerated betrayal. “Attacked on all sides. But honestly, who could possibly compete with Commander Blond and Perfect?” he asked, mock-mournful, but Fenris caught the real twist of pain in his eyes right as he turned to face into the fire.

“Yeah, well, that’s because he hasn’t disappeared for a year yet.” Varric’s smile didn’t waver – he spoke Hawke’s language better than anyone, and he knew exactly how Hawke had always got over the terrible events of his past. “Admit it, you just don’t know which one to be jealous of.”

Hawke gave a strangled laugh. “True. Can't it be both?”

“Would you rather I go?” Fenris asked. He had never been able to match their banter, and it was too hard to gauge if his presence actually bothered the rogue amidst all the pretense at levity.

“No, no,” Hawke said, without hesitation. “Sorry. Stay and tell me about your trip. Did you find that healer? Please, tell me he’s up to performing an actual miracle.”

Hawke had always been all too easy to talk to, and that at least had not changed. He coughed often, a sudden choking cough like his airway had tried to close over, but recovered quickly each time. Even so, it made Fenris’ own chest tight to hear it: the days when Hawke had lingered on the brink of death, struggling for each scrap of air, were too fresh in his memory.

Fenris had just finished giving an account of Krem’s unconventional way of finishing off the giant – throughout which Varric took copious notes – when he saw Senior Enchanter Finn approaching, for once without his elven shadow at his side.

Finn stopped a few feet from the table and executed an elegant bow. “Champion – or is it Viscount?”

Hawke made a face. “Neither, if I can help it. Just Hawke is fine.”

Finn smiled. “I thought perhaps I should introduce myself, before I disappeared into the mage tower to help with the research effort.” His voice was a light as ever, but Fenris thought he detected a slightly frosty undertone. Varric had picked up on it too; his smile faltered for a moment across the table. “I am Senior Enchanter Florian Phineas Horatio Aldebrandt… Esquire.”

Hawke’s eyes widened. “That’s… quite a mouthful, Senior Enchanter.”

The mage grinned. “You can see why I prefer to go by Finn.” He stood smiling for a moment longer, before his shoulders drooped and the courtly demeanour melted away. “Look, Champion – Hawke. I’m going to be honest with you. I thought we should clear the air, here, before you’re trusting me with your life – or I’m risking my own neck saving yours.” He pulled out a chair and sat heavily in it without waiting for an invitation.

Hawke still projected an air of nonchalance, but he was watching Finn too closely to be truly as nonplussed as he appeared. “Clear the air?” he repeated.

“Yeah. Purging the Kirkwall Circle? What was that about?” Finn asked flatly. “That can’t have won you many supporters amongst mages anywhere.”

Hawke stared at him openly for a moment, all pretense at casualness gone. “No – you’re right,” he allowed. He laid his hands on his knees, hunching his shoulders. “Honestly, I was never on anyone’s side, over there. For years, my only part in the whole endless conflict was to try and get them to drop it. But after An... after the Chantry,” he amended quickly, “there was no choice but to pick a side. I still sort of thought I could talk the Knight-Commander down, if I just bought myself a bit more time to work on her.”

Varric leaned against the arm of his chair towards Finn. “No one really saw the red lyrium madness thing coming, Finn, not even that late in the game. But as it turns out, there’s really no reasoning with stark raving crazy.”

“I’d publically sided with them,” Hawke continued. “To the mages, I was already the enemy.” Hawke sighed, bending to run his fingers back through his short dark hair. “And then Orsino got desperate and turned into some sort of… giant... abomination… thing. Nothing could have brought any doubters among the templars into line quicker.”

Finn had listened, a slight frown on his face, nodding occasionally. Now he spoke again: “Would you undo it, then, if you could?”

Hawke didn’t hesitate: “Yes – knowing what Meredith was, seeing what I’ve seen of the templars now, yes.” He glanced apologetically at Fenris, as though expecting the lyrium warrior to leap into one of the anti-mage rants he had once been known for.

But Fenris could not be surprised. He couldn’t even say for sure he still believed Hawke’s decision had been right, now, years distant from the hot-blooded hatred of the day. He could remember Hawke’s distant resignation at the end – he had been backed into a corner, fighting for the wrong side in a war he never wanted to be drawn into.

“If I’d known what Meredith was dabbling in, I’d have found a way to put a permanent end to it far sooner," Hawke went on. "For all Cullen’s regrets that he supported her so long, he would have done a better job than she did. He certainly did well with the even bigger mess she left afterwards. Though,” he made a face, “a half-trained mabari would probably have made a better Knight-Commander than she did.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Finn managed a strained smile. “The mabari would definitely have been a better choice.” His face grew serious once more, and thoughtful, as he chewed over Hawke’s words. “It is a relief to hear, Hawke,” he said finally. “The way some tell it… well, I just wanted to know for sure you didn’t exult in what happened at the Gallows.”

Hawke let out a defeated laugh, rubbing his hand across his forehead. “Yes, well, I can assure you – there is almost nothing that happened in Kirkwall that I could exult in, for all the fancy titles they might have given me.”

“Not even killing a high dragon?” Varric asked, an attempt to lighten the mood – though even his own voice sounded thin.

Hawke made a helpless gesture. “Hard to be too excited after it killed a whole mine full of workers.”

Finn leaned forward, still looking at Hawke intently. “And what of Anderfels?”

What little colour there had been in Hawke’s pale face drained away. “Anders?”

“Yes. We were at the Ferelden Circle together – for a while, at least.” Finn frowned. “He was your friend – I thought you must know. How did it happen? The Chantry?”

“I never expected it,” Hawke said dully, still white as a sheet. “I don’t think he did, either. He had been… losing himself a little at a time for years, by the end.”

“The spirit –?” Finn asked, and Hawke looked up sharply, before being overcome by a sudden coughing fit. After a few moments, he dragged in a rasping breath and tried to speak again, but the coughing came on even stronger.

Finn leaned forward and urged a flickering green orb from his palm to Hawke’s chest. It turned gold as it sank into the rogue’s skin, and after a moment the coughing finally subsided.

Hawke touched his chest and took an experimental breath, then a deeper one, before he finally nodded to Finn with new respect. “My thanks,” he managed hoarsely.

He looked around, clearing his throat, to make sure no one else was listening in to their conversation. When he did continue, it was in a murmur: “I didn’t think that was common knowledge, about Anders.”

Finn shook his head. “It’s not,” he said, leaning in and matching Hawke’s quieter tone. “Once I realised who the mage was who had destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry, I made all the enquiries I could of the College. There are a couple of mages there who survived Kirkwall, and one of them eventually told me a story of how you personally intervened to save her from an abomination – who was one of your own party.” He shrugged. “The description she gave made it pretty obvious who it must have been.”

Hawke fell silent for a moment, frowning down at the arm of his chair. “Anders blamed himself,” he said finally, “that Justice – the spirit – had been changed by his own nature. By the end, he was having blackouts, losing blocks of time – he was losing control.” He dropped his gaze to the table. “After the Chantry, after he realised what he had done, he begged for death.”

“He said he wanted to die before there was nothing of him left,” Varric recalled grimly.

“Maker.” Finn dropped back against his backrest, looking a bit wan himself.

“I wish I had… I don’t know. Tried harder to understand – paid more attention. There must have been some way to stop it.” Hawke gritted his teeth. “We didn’t always see eye to eye, but I wish it hadn’t come to that. All those people dead. And Anders gone too.”

Finn nodded, and there was none of the cool distance in his expression that there had been when he first arrived at the table. Instead, he just looked sad. “Thank you for talking to me, Cha… Hawke. I am sorry for making you speak on painful events.” After a moment, he tapped his fingernails against the wood of the chair and got to his feet once more. “There’s one last thing, Hawke,” he said. “Do you mind if I take a look at the scar you sustained in the Fade? I need some idea of what we’re attempting.”

“Oh,” Hawke’s hand went to his chest, and then he gave a brief shrug. “Sure. By now I think everyone in Skyhold has seen it at one time or other.” He unbuttoned his shirt as he spoke, and then pulled the fabric to the side.

There was the familiar mark – near-circular and recessed slightly into Hawke’s chest, with the raised whorl of shiny scar tissue, the livid red-pink of a freshly sealed wound, at its centre. It made the hair at the back of Fenris’ neck stand up to look at, still – there was no escaping that this wound should have killed him.

Finn frowned down at it, and reached out his own damaged hand to touch it carefully. A faint thread of green magic was just visible at his fingertips, sinking into Hawke’s chest as the mage’s eyes half-closed. “It’s almost like part was… hmm,” he mused, rather cryptically, as he continued to channel the spell. “Hard to be sure.” The green glow brightened around his hand, and Hawke gave a sharp intake of breath.

“Hawke?” Fenris asked, as the spirit healer finally straightened and the spell winked out of existence.

“It’s all right – actually,” the rogue said, rubbing at the scar, “my chest feels much clearer.”

Finn still looked deep in thought, but he seemed to remember himself and conjured up a smile. “Yes,” he acknowledged. “That should hopefully stave off the coughing for a bit. It’s quite a scar, and it was quite an unusual injury – but we’ll work something out.” He patted Hawke on the shoulder before he retraced his steps back out of the main entryway.

As soon as Finn was out of sight, Hawke slumped in his chair. “Maker, but I could use a hug right now,” he muttered to himself.

“Hey, you know your favourite dwarf is right here,” Varric said, grinning.

“You are quite pale, Hawke,” Fenris observed, standing so that he could reach across to lay a palm on Hawke’s forehead.

“Bit of a draining topic, I guess,” the rogue said. “Perhaps I should go lie down for a bit.” He propped his hands on his chair, trying to lever himself out of it, and it was only then that Fenris realised he was trembling.

Fenris helped Hawke up and, when the man was standing, stepped against him and wrapped his arms around Hawke’s lean frame. As always, his head tucked perfectly beneath Hawke’s chin – the man really was excessively tall – and the rogue chuckled as one weak hand came up to rest on Fenris’ waist.

“I miss you,” he admitted softly.

Fenris extracted himself from the embrace carefully. He moved to support Hawke's side instead, avoiding looking at the longing expression in those familiar golden-brown eyes. "Come on - let's get you to your bed."

Chapter Text

It was only once Hawke was asleep in his room, Varric with his boots up on a spare chair and scribbling away in one of his endless notebooks, that Fenris left to find the Inquisitor’s meeting. As he made his way down to the hall and out into the gardens, he was struck by how much busier Skyhold seemed even in the past few weeks. There were people everywhere, many in Inquisition green and brown but some in bright Orlesian colour, Fereldan furs or gleaming Nevarran armour – there was even the occasional Avvar warpaint or Antivan leathers. Now, humming with noise and activity, Skyhold seemed more like the fortress of one of the most powerful factions in Thedas.

Fenris had not been in the gardens much. During the few quiet weeks with Cullen before news of the Hinterlands rift had reached them, the garden had been an unwelcoming expanse of snow and icy stone. And afterwards, occupied with Hawke’s sickness, Fenris had barely been aware of the thawing ground beyond the walled balcony outside their rooms.

Now the snow was gone, and work was already underway to clear dead growth and prepare the beds. A faint flush of green had overtaken some of the trees, and the early shoots of bulbs and grasses were beginning to eke their way up from the soil to brave the chill spring air.

There were people in the gardens, too, strolling around the paths red-cheeked and warmly-wrapped against the persistent cold. In the end, Fenris had to ask one of them – a stout dwarven man in a thick cloak and wool cap – to point him in the direction of the meeting room.

There was a guard standing outside, but he must have been given Fenris’ description; he merely nodded to the elf and held the door open for him to enter.

He could hear Finn’s voice before he even got all the way inside: “I just don’t see how it’s achievable,” the mage was saying. He was seated at the near end of a crowded oval table, facing away; of the rest of the room’s occupants, Fenris knew Dorian, Merrill and Dagna, besides the Inquisitor, but the others were unfamiliar to him. “It’s a good idea – I venture it would even work.” There were a few thick books open on the table and a very old, cracked scroll rolled out in the very centre. Finn stood from his seat to point at a diagram. “But the ambrosia only acts as a conduit – the power has to come from somewhere.”

“Three body slaves, the original seems to suggest,” Dorian mused. “They were subtle about it, but then – blood magic was never officially sanctioned, of course.”

Fenris folded his arms across his chest, scowling. “Oh, of course. No magister would officially resort to such methods.” He had wondered at times how many of Danarius’ slaves had given their life to power the spells that knit the lyrium to his flesh. But in truth he was glad that he did not know – what memory he retained already contained too many blood sacrifices for one lifetime.

Dorian grimaced. “Yes, well, I am not a magister,” he said, “and I certainly won’t.”

“There’s more than one way to skin a nug,” Dagna put in, smiling. “Especially when it comes to magic. It’s magic, after all!”

“You could use lyrium, could you not?” asked a stern-faced female elf. She did not look like a mage; she was clad in a simple brown dress with an apron wrapped over it that bore faint green stains. “It worked for the Breach.”

“Well, yes,” Dorian said. “If we want to deplete most of our stock – and if Finn could take that much without killing himself.”

“We just need more mages,” Finn concluded glumly, shaking his head of unruly red hair. “I can easily keep him stable enough to travel to the White Spire – then I might have to call in a few favours, but there are probably enough creation mages around to attempt it.” Though he was the one to suggest it, he didn’t sound overly confident in the plan.

A strange, cold feeling had begun to seep through Fenris as soon as the other elf had mentioned lyrium. He listened in silence to Finn’s words, and by the time the mage had finished speaking the suggestion seemed an obvious one.

“Use me,” he said.

They all stared at him.

“Uh,” Finn replied eloquently.

“If lyrium will provide power enough, then use mine.” Fenris held out his arms either side of him; the lyrium exposed by his armour gleamed in the light. “Danarius created not only a weapon, but a wellspring. You can draw as much as necessary without risk.”

It was Dorian who spoke – “Without risk to the mage, perhaps.” The mage’s grey eyes were concerned. “But what of you?”

“It will be painful.” Fenris met his gaze, unflinching. “But pain will not kill me.”

He had hated it – not only the pain, but the sense of violation, the weakened state it left him in. It made his skin crawl even to think of. That he was volunteering, now, to go through that again – in Kirkwall, newly free, Fenris would have said he would die before submitting to that again. But there was little he would not give to see Hawke well.

“It could,” Dorian insisted, looking no less worried.

“I mean, how does it even work? What if all the lyrium is consumed?” Finn sounded almost as unconvinced as Dorian. “What if it’s still not enough? I doubt the spell could be nullified, once the channelling is begun.”

“It’s raw lyrium – potent stuff,” Dagna offered. “It would take an awfully big spell to use up all of that. Pretty sure he could have powered sealing the Breach on his own, and saved all that messing about with the mages and templars.”

The elf who had spoken earlier was looking at Fenris, her face speculative. “You know, if it was consumed, it might possibly be to his benefit,” she mused.

“Ooh, possibly. Probably, even,” Dagna said. “It’s poisonous, of course – so poisonous. It must be bound in some way, but I wouldn’t bet on that lasting forever.”

She wasn’t the first to tell him something similar. He had known for some time that the ‘gift’ Danarius had bestowed on him was likely to kill him, eventually. Danarius would have had no use for the ‘lyrium ghost’ as Fenris aged beyond his combat utility.

“So if the ritual reduces the amount, in all likelihood it would be a positive thing,” the elf concluded.

Dorian glowered at her, and at Dagna beside her. “So we’re just going to have him sit through utter agony for who knows how long – because ‘in all likelihood’ it’s good for him anyway.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “That doesn’t seem the slightest bit concerning to anyone else?”

“Dorian,” Revem said gently.

“No – I’ve… I’ve seen it done before, all right?” Dorian admitted, shifting in his seat. “I was barely into my teens, but I was expected to attend all the fashionable parties and all Minrathous was afire with Danarius’ pet.” His lips cringed away from the word, and there was guilt written clear in his eyes. “I saw him draw power from you to show off. He made fireworks, of all things. You went just about grey, and he had to get his other slaves to carry you out of there.” He straightened, propping his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers before him. “Surely there's another way.”

It was bizarre to hear an altus speak out in defence of his wellbeing. There was still something in Fenris which wanted to throw the mage’s words back in his face, as he would have once without a second thought – I don’t need your concern, mage. It was your kind that did this to me! This particular mage must have witnessed slaves abused and bled countless times – probably with a glass of wine in one hand and a smile on his face, surrounded by all the most vile the magisterium had to offer. And yet – he was not one of them, not truly. He did not deserve Fenris’ ire.

“And what if there is not?” Fenris asked, keeping his voice even. “I understand what I am agreeing to. It will take time to recover after it is done, but it is nothing I have not endured before – for many a lesser purpose, as you point out.”

“We can give him something for pain – we could even use the sleep spell on him, if it would help,” one of the other unfamiliar mages suggested, though she looked unsure.

Fenris held up a hand in refusal. To be put to sleep for mages to experiment on him – no. Never again. “I cannot allow that.” He considered for a moment, before adding: “Hawke will protest it, however, if he is awake.”

“He’ll have to sleep anyway,” Dagna said cheerfully. “Don’t want to be moving while someone’s tinkering around in your chest.”

But Dorian’s eyes had narrowed, and even Revem looked more doubtful. “If even Hawke will refuse, then surely –”

“He will refuse because he is self-sacrificing to the point of idiocy,” Fenris snapped. “Have you not seen evidence enough already? He would refuse my minor inconvenience at the cost of his own future.” He raised his chin. “Without him, would you have defeated Corypheus at all? This could be a chance to restore him. We all owe him that much.”

They all exchanged glances and nods and disapproving frowns, but in the end it was Finn who spoke – by rights, perhaps, as it was he who would have to do as Fenris suggested.

“I don’t like it at all,” he admitted. He had turned in his chair so that he could face Fenris, his expression tense. “But far be it from me to decide what you can and can’t withstand. If we can work out the rest of the details, we will attempt the ritual the way you suggest.”

Revem leaned forward in his chair, his blue eyes searching Fenris’ face. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Fenris didn’t hesitate. “I am sure.”

Fenris was not well-versed in magic, but he had stood sentry behind Danarius’ chair at enough tedious university meetings to understand at least some of what they discussed.

It was spirit healing at its most advanced, calling on greater residents of the Fade to restore the crippled, or rejuvenate the aged. The cost was great – the ambrosia it required was near-priceless, and the original spell called for the blood of several slaves.

Dorian thought the fact that such a powerful healing spell had remained secret was probably by design. “Imagine the wholesale murder of slaves in the Imperium if every age-spotted Magister had got their hands on this.” Dorian winced. “Though there’s also a good chance they just didn’t want any of their rivals to be able to match their party trick.”

Fenris’ own experience of the Tevinter elite suggested the latter was more likely. The military might of Tevinter with an army of lyrium ghosts at its fore would have been unstoppable, but Danarius had never shared his process with anyone. That still had not prevented ‘wholesale murder of slaves’ to some degree; many of Danarius’ compatriots had tried, and as far as Fenris knew, there had been no other successes.

Finn’s theory was that some of Hawke was in fact missing – residues that remained in the Fade after his catastrophic wound. He believed the spirit who had aided Hawke had sealed the damage, but could not – or did not understand the need to – restore what had been lost. There was some brief argument between the mages over whether it could be actual blood or tissue, fragments of lung and heart left in the Nightmare’s realm, or some metaphysical 'life essence'.

Regardless, in theory the spell would enable Finn to call through anything of Hawke that remained in the Fade, and make him whole again.

It took the remainder of the afternoon for the mages to agree on a precise course of action, and Fenris had a headache well before they were satisfied.

Even after half a day of planning, they would not be ready to act for several days yet. Each attendee had his or her own research task, as the group attempted to get the best possible grasp on what the outcome could be.

Most of them headed off to the tower or the library with their assignments, already discussing esoteric scholars or old experiments in communicating with the Fade.

Revem went to Hawke, to explain their progress so far.

Fenris himself walked aimlessly around Skyhold for a while, thinking on everything they had discussed. It sounded improbable, if not impossible, even to someone who had lived much of his life surrounded by the magic-soaked upper echelons of Tevinter society. He was sure that Hawke would agree to go through with it, no matter the risks – but there was no knowing for sure that he would emerge from the ritual better off than he was before. He could even die… Fenris wasn’t sure he could face that again.

And there was Fenris’ own part in all this. Out of the room, and away from the dubious glances of the mages, he felt his confidence waver. It was not because he believed any less that it was the right decision, or that it was worth the suffering it would cost him – in any case, the decision was made, and he would not take it back now. But he did not relish the prospect.

In fact, he… and he would never admit this to any of that room of mages… but he was afraid. Submitting to this would call back old memories, of a life he had been running from since Seheron. It was nothing he had ever wanted to revisit. He wasn’t sure what it would truly cost him to do so.

He had thought he was just wandering without intent, but before long he found himself on the parapets outside Cullen’s office.

“These can go to Ser Morris, and that will be all for today,” Cullen handed over the sheets of requisitions. “Thank you, Carris.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Commander.” Carris bowed over the armful of rolled papers. She was an industrious assistant, and never complained about her workload, but there was relief in the weary smile she gave him. It had been a long day, and she had spent much of it hurrying around Skyhold.

Cullen turned back to the next item on top of the still-daunting stack of paperwork on his desk. It was only the surprised “oh, sorry – excuse me!” from Carris that brought his attention back towards the door; when he glanced up, he saw that she had almost collided with Fenris on her way out.

She ducked her head and skirted around him, but even once she had gone Fenris didn’t advance any further from where he stood in the entryway.

“Um – hi,” Cullen said, smiling as he got to his feet. He felt a familiar rush of nerves and anticipation, having Fenris back here once more – where it had all begun between them. “Are you coming in?”

Fenris hesitated. “I…” He finally stepped inside the threshold before firmly closing the door behind him. But from there, he advanced no further.

Cullen peered across at him. “Are you well?” Fenris looked pensive, the notch of a frown between his dark brows.

“Yes – yes,” the elf said quickly. He shifted his weight where he stood, restless. “I have volunteered to do something… unpleasant. Perhaps rashly.”

Cullen stopped halfway between his desk and the doorway. He couldn’t decide whether to be concerned, or gratified that Fenris had raised it at all. He was a little shocked at that, to be honest. “What sort of unpleasant?” he asked.

Fenris leaned against the door with a sigh, and then he began to explain.

Cullen listened, and asked a few questions, and he wasn’t upset. He was apprehensive, but he knew duty better than most. If Fenris felt this was his duty, his final reparation to Hawke, Cullen could not protest that.

When he was satisfied that he understood as well as he was going to what was going to happen, he simply stepped forward and enveloped the elf in a crushing embrace, heedless of the spiked accents on Fenris’ armour.

“Cullen?” Fenris asked, his hands resting uncertainly on Cullen’s back.

“Just… don’t die,” Cullen murmured against Fenris’ pointed ear. “I would never forgive you.” The elf gave a huff of breath that could almost have been a laugh.

They stood like that for a long moment, before Fenris turned his face towards Cullen’s neck. “Will you be there? It would mean much to me if you were, but I understand if…”

“I’ll be there,” Cullen said firmly. He straightened enough that he could kiss the pattern of dots engraved into the skin of the elf’s forehead.

Fenris closed his eyes. “How are you so good?” he murmured. “No matter what foolishness I inflict on you, you stand with me.” His arms tightened around Cullen’s back.

“Oh yes, you’re brave, selfless – what am I thinking?” Cullen joked.

Fenris nosed back against Cullen’s throat, pressing an open-mouthed kiss against the sparse stubble there. “I have given you plenty of reason to be put off,” he murmured. His deep voice, as much felt as heard so close, and the press of their bodies together was beginning to make Cullen quite the opposite of put off.

“Why, did you want me to be?” Cullen’s voice cracked slightly at the sharp press of Fenris’ gauntleted fingers against the cloth-covered skin at the edge of his breastplate.

“No – no,” Fenris breathed. “I want you to…” He drew back, regarding Cullen with an intense green stare. “I want you to fuck me.” He stepped away suddenly, moving towards the ladder that led up to Cullen’s sleeping quarters before Cullen even had time to process that request.

“Ah… ?” Cullen watched the elf ascend the ladder, speechless.

“Now would be good,” Fenris called down, and then he was out of sight.

Flustered, Cullen glanced around the room – the doors were closed, but it was still daylight outside, and there was no telling when a runner would show up. He could hear Fenris moving around on the upper level, and the telltale rustle and clatter of armour being removed – Andraste preserve me. He placed the backs of his hands against his face, willing his blush to fade, and headed towards the main door that led across to the keep – thankfully not the one Fenris had arrived by.

The guard outside jolted to attention when Cullen appeared.

"I won't be available for the rest of the evening.” Somehow, Cullen managed to say it with a straight face.

“Yes, Commander,” the guard said, with a Fereldan-style salute.

Cullen nodded and turned back inside. He drew the bolt on the door for good measure, and then went to each of the other doors and did the same. Finally he faced the ladder, caught between eagerness and trepidation. The times they had been together in that bed, before, Fenris had not offered this. Cullen had thought it likely he never would: he had never pried too much into what Fenris had endured as a slave, but he knew what sort of a man his former master had been.

Cullen was happy if Fenris was happy; he didn’t need any more. He didn’t want to risk damaging what they had – again – by being too eager, too hasty, and letting Fenris do anything he would later regret.

At the top rung of the ladder he stopped to take in the sight before him. Fenris reclined idly on the bed with a faint smirk on his lips, clad only in his close-fitting leather leggings. One hand was folded behind his head; the other held the stoppered vial of oil, turning it over idly in his fingers.

“Oh, Maker,” Cullen groaned, fighting down the urge to pounce on the elf like a starved animal as he stepped up into his room. He knew from distant experience that steel armour against bare skin in a chilly room was less than pleasant – and he intended to talk about this, before anything else.

Instead he turned to face the window and stripped off his armour methodically, laying each piece beside the snarled heap of Fenris’ own. By the time he pulled his tunic over his head, he was in control enough once more to remember his misgivings. He sat on the edge of the bed.

“So –” he started, but he couldn’t quite find the right words. “Um…”

“You are uncomfortable,” Fenris observed.

“No,” Cullen said quickly, then relented. “Yes. Somewhat. I want you – I want you enough to drive me mad. I just... are you completely sure? I have no expectations, here.”

Fenris chuckled, and Cullen felt the bed shift beneath his weight before the elf leaned up against his back, legs spread wide to bracket Cullen’s hips and his arms sliding around Cullen’s shoulders. “I am sure.” His voice was a soft growl that made the hair on the nape of Cullen’s neck stand on end. He lips moved closer to Cullen’s ear. “I want you – enough to drive me mad.”

Well, there was only so much a man could take, even one as cautious as Cullen. He turned in Fenris’ grip, claiming his mouth in a hard kiss as Fenris’ lips parted eagerly before him. Cullen knelt up against him, pressing their bare skin together; Fenris’ arms wrapped around his waist. The elf lay back against the covers and Cullen followed him down, unwilling to let the kiss end just yet.

Finally Cullen broke the contact, straightening just long enough to wriggle out of his trousers; Fenris took the chance to do the same.

Cullen moved back over him more carefully, taking his time to revel in the beauty of Fenris’ naked form, all dark skin and gleaming tattoos over planes of lean muscle. His lips sought the hollow of Fenris’ throat, his bare collarbone. Fenris groaned when Cullen mouthed at the silver lines of lyrium, and thrust up against the heavier man above him, his hands still skating restlessly over Cullen’s skin.

Cullen reached down to take Fenris’ cock in hand, and the elf moaned low and long as Cullen began to stroke him.

Suddenly Fenris shifted, reaching across to grab the discarded vial. He pushed it towards Cullen, who knelt up so that he could grab it without breaking his rhythm on Fenris’ cock. “Impatient?” he murmured, squeezing just a little tighter on the next stroke.

“Cullen – please,” Fenris gasped.

The urge was strong to roll Fenris over and take him then and there, but Cullen was determined to make this as pleasurable for Fenris as he could. So instead he shifted down over Fenris’ body and lowered his knees to the floor, the elf’s strong fingers clutching at his shoulders, his scalp. He settled between Fenris' legs, and pulled him easily to the edge of the bed.

Cullen poured out oil over his fingers, dripped it over Fenris’ perineum, then capped the bottle and set it aside. Then, as his slick fingers traced the droplets down, he leaned up on his free elbow and brought his lips to Fenris’ cock.

He took it into his mouth, sinking slowly down, as his fingers rubbed small circles against Fenris’ opening. The elf curled over himself, groaning loudly enough that Cullen was thankful there was no longer a gap in his ceiling to compromise their privacy – Fenris’ legs opened reflexively, granting Cullen better access, and he let his silver head fall back against the bed. Cullen began to push in steadily, dropping his mouth further onto Fenris’ cock at the same time, and the elf gasped when the tip of one finger finally broached him. Cullen rocked his hand back and forth, matching the rhythm of his mouth on Fenris’ shaft as he eased his finger deeper, until the elf began to lift up on his heels to press back against him. On the next slow stroke he drew all the way out, and then slid a second finger in beside the first while he sucked hard on the head of Fenris’ cock.

“Ah -" Fenris’ grip in Cullen’s hair tightened, pulling up to stop Cullen from taking Fenris fully back into his mouth. The elf was breathing hard, his green eyes glazed with desire as he stared half-lidded. “I don’t want to finish yet. Please Cullen – please fuck me.”

Cullen withdrew his fingers slowly, and lifted his mouth away from Fenris with one last rebellious suck; he wasn’t at all opposed to Fenris finishing in his mouth with Cullen’s fingers buried in him. He was so unopposed that, for all his cock had been neglected so far, Cullen was rock hard and trembling with arousal as he climbed back onto the bed, urging Fenris’ thighs to part even further so that he could settle between them. He leaned down so that he could kiss Fenris; the elf bit at his lower lip and growled against him. “Now, Cullen.”

Cullen laughed softly, then the laugh became a tight groan as an oil slick hand gripped his straining erection – and when had Fenris managed that? The elf threw the capped vial aside, and held Cullen’s stare as he stroked the oil firmly down Cullen’s length and over the head.

Cullen reached down to take over, and canted his hips so that he could bring the head of his cock against the oiled cleft of Fenris’ ass. He slid down, adjusting the angle until he could feel the taut band of muscle that marked Fenris’ entrance. He pushed – carefully, slowly – and finally began to broach him, fraction by fraction. Fenris’ mouth opened silently, his eyes squeezing closed as each tiny shift of Cullen’s hips slid his cock deeper inside the tight grip of Fenris' body. A fine sweat had broken out across Fenris’ dark skin, and his hands clutched at the covers either side of him.

Cullen paused, forcing himself to hold still despite the urgent need to bury himself in that tight, slick grip around him. “You okay?”

Fenris’ eyes cracked open, and he nodded jerkily. “Yes...” He swallowed. “It has just been a while.”

“Okay.” Cullen shifted position with care, straightening so that he could once against stroke Fenris’ cock – which was, he was relieved to feel, still hard. He did not press in any deeper yet, watching Fenris’ face as arousal slowly overcame discomfort – the elf panted audibly as Cullen jerked him, his head shifting against the bed. Cullen almost lost the thread of his control when he looked down and saw his own cock half-buried in the stretched ring of Fenris’ ass. “You are so tight,” he murmured, closing his own eyes. “Maker, Fenris, it’s so good. I almost can’t stop myself.”

Fenris’ breath hitched, and he shifted down against Cullen, taking another inch in. They both groaned together at the sensation. “Don’t stop,” Fenris said. “Please.”

Cullen obliged him, gripping Fenris’ thigh with his free hand and finally sheathing himself fully in one slow slide. “Yes,” Fenris hissed through his teeth. “Ah, Cullen…”

Cullen let out a shaky breath, overwhelmed by the sensation, by the scene before him; his striking elven warrior, flushed and fully hard, spread out to take him. Then Cullen began to move, slowly at first, tilts of his pelvis that rocked him a half inch out and back in, drawing a soft gasp from Fenris each time.

Before long Fenris’ cock was leaking at its tip, when Cullen stroked upward, and the elf was beginning to shift his own hips to meet Cullen’s thrusts. “Harder,” he urged.

Cullen’s hands shifted to grip Fenris’ hips, hauling the elf up and half-into his lap, his cock pushed even deeper by the movement as he spread his thighs for purchase. “Ah!” Fenris tilted his head back. “Fenhedis, yes...”

Cullen needed no further encouragement. He drew his hips back and snapped them forwards, and again, thrusting deep inside each time. “Fenris,” he breathed. “You should… touch yourself.”

Fenris did, but his touch was feather light, barely moving. He was breathing even harder, now, pushing up to meet each movement as Cullen fucked him in earnest. If Cullen wasn’t completely misreading him...

“Are you close... ?” he asked, and Fenris actually choked out a laugh.

“Yes – too close...”

“Me too,” Cullen admitted, grunting as he thrust in once more. Finally releasing his last thread of restraint, he let the pursuit of his own release drive him to fuck Fenris yet harder and faster.

Fenris stroked himself in earnest, then, moaning aloud each time Cullen slammed into him. When he spoke again, his voice was strangled: “Festis bei umo canavarum... Cullen,” he groaned the name as he came, his back arching, and the sudden pulsing clench around him was enough to bring Cullen over the edge too.

Afterwards, Fenris lay on the bed – seemingly exhausted, but with a small satisfied smile playing about his face – while Cullen cleaned them both up. Then Cullen dropped down on the bed beside him, curving one arm around Fenris’ narrow hips. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes – better than.” Fenris opened his eyes, looking sideways at Cullen. “I don’t… often feel like doing that.”

Cullen nodded. “It was a… very nice surprise. You should know by now - I will be lead by you. If you want it, I want it.”

“Well, I will let you know the next time I want it,” Fenris added, a smile tugging at one side of his mouth.

“Noted. And… well,” Cullen could feel that flush returning. “Should I let you know when… I want it?”

Fenris’ green eyes went very wide, the smile overtaken by outright shock. “Really? You?”

“There is… precedent,” Cullen admitted, his face burning.

Fenris gave a full throated laugh.

“I’ll take that as a yes, I think,” Cullen said.

Fenris rolled onto him in one swift movement, pushing Cullen onto his back and pinning the other man to the mattress. “Fuck, yes,” he growled, close to Cullen’s ear.

If it hadn’t been such a short period of time since their last exertions, that would definitely have been enough to get Cullen hard – even as it was, his cock gave an interested twitch.

Fenris kissed him, then, more gently than Cullen had expected. It was tender, almost sweet, just lips and the barest brush of tongue. When he drew back, he was smiling fondly. He rolled off again, tucking in against Cullen’s side, and they lay like that for a while in comfortable quiet.

Cullen hadn’t been planning to go to sleep – he had been going to suggest the baths, in fact – but it was just so nice to lie together.

Before long he found himself drifting off, his arm still around Fenris.

Chapter Text

Fenris had come straight from the baths, and the walk across the Skyhold courtyard beneath a pale spring sky had chilled his damp hair and skin until he was shivering. He stood near the fire as Finn rustled through papers and muttered to himself. It was early enough that there was no-one else around – he wasn’t sure he had met a mage before who could be called an early riser. Anders, perhaps, but then Anders had hardly slept at all.

He didn’t want to think of Anders.

“Well, I’m ready, I suppose,” the healer said finally. “Are you all right?” Finn asked, peering at Fenris’ face.

“Yes,” Fenris lied, and made himself walk to the middle of the room.

Finn stepped around behind him as planned, settling his hands gently on Fenris’ shoulders. Fenris couldn’t stop the way his breath quickened – perhaps he should have had the mage stand in front of him, after all. But he had not wanted Finn to see his face. He could keep from crying out, but his face would betray the pain.

Danarius had always gripped the back of Fenris’ neck – at least in that way it was different.

Fenris felt the first tentative brush of Finn’s magic questing towards the markings, building into a tangible current through his skin. That was the only warning before pain seared through him.

It was as though each whorl of lyrium had become a blade, being torn through his body towards the insistent pull of Finn’s touch. All the strength went out of him, every nerve seeming devoted only to agony - the drain spell itself was all that kept him from falling, suspended with his toes touching the ground as the power was dragged out of him.

And then it stopped.

Fenris barely caught himself on his hands and knees, panting raggedly as he stared at the floor.

“You can’t do that!” snapped a shrill voice above him.

Fenris forced his head up, pushed himself away from the ground so that he could turn.

Cole had pushed Finn back against the wall, his pale hands wrapped tightly around the mage’s upper arms. Finn held his own hands up in surrender, his gaze flickering between Cole’s face and where Fenris crouched.

“Cole,” Fenris managed, between gasped lungfuls of air, “it’s all right,”

“He was hurting you,” Cole insisted, not letting go of Finn.

“I...” Fenris fought to find the words through the aftershocks of pain coursing through his skin. “I asked him to. We’re going to help Hawke.”

“Help… ?” Cole relaxed his grip on Finn. “You’re helping Hawke by hurting you?” Finally he let go entirely, stepping back away from the mage.

Finn stared at Cole, alarm fading into a familiar curiosity.

Fenris groped around for an example. “Like when a healer has to sew a wound closed. It hurts, sometimes it hurts worse than getting wounded.”

Cole blinked back at him, clearly unconvinced. “That's not the same. That’s helping and hurting the same person.”

“Yes,” Fenris admitted. He finally got himself up to one knee, closing his eyes against the way his vision swam. Then Finn’s hand was on his, helping pull him to his feet. Fenris grabbed at the mage's arm, alarmed by how weak his legs felt beneath him, but he kept his footing even once Finn let go.

Cole was watching the exchange, his expression unreadable.

Finn scratched at his mop of red hair. He was frowning. “I’m not sure this is a good plan – for either of us.” He stretched out and then closed his hands, as though trying to clear them of an ache. “It, well, it worked. The power is... phenomenal, but… it was pretty awful, too, I have to tell you. Even more awful that someone intended this.”

“That’s why you are permitted,” Cole told him, matter-of-fact. “Curious, but cautious. The spirits trust you to take just what’s given.” Cole tipped his head forward, covering his face with the brim of his oversized hat once more. “So does Fenris.”

“We knew from the start this was not a good plan,” Fenris said, choosing to address the mage’s remark rather than Cole’s far more unsettling one. Perhaps even more disturbing than the former spirit’s ability to all but read minds, was the truth in his statement. Fenris did trust Finn with this – strange as that was, for he who could not trust mages, and who had known this particular mage barely a week. “There are risks. It will not be pleasant. But we can make this plan work.” Fenris gave Finn a challenging look.

The mage gave a long-suffering sigh. “You’re still determined, then?”

Fenris nodded.

“Somehow I thought that might be the case.” Finn pinched the bridge of his long nose between two fingers, worrying at his bottom lip. Finally, he lifted his head. “All right. All right," he repeated, more confidently the second time. "Between us, the Fade won’t stand a chance.”

"They want to help you," Cole corrected him, absently. "You don't need to fight them."

Finn looked steadily at him, a quirk of curiosity in the line of his brows. “I haven’t met you before,” he said. “I would definitely remember.”

Cole looked fretful. “I stayed away. You are like – like the me that wasn’t me, from before. I came to help him, like those that come to you.” He dropped his gaze to the floor. “I couldn’t.”

Finn blinked a few times. “Oh, well, that makes everything clearer.”

"I'm sorry." Cole backed towards the doorway, twisting his fingers before him. “Goodbye.” He darted out of the door, almost at a run.

Finn watched him leave, his expression something between baffled and intrigued. "Very interesting company there is to be had around here."

Hawke was alone when Fenris went up to visit him that evening. He was seated cross-legged on top of his covers, leaning against the bedhead with an open book beside him.

He looked pale and tired, with shadows smudged beneath his golden-brown eyes – but he grinned when he saw Fenris. “My favourite elf,” he said grandly. Then he paused, eyes darting sideways. “Um. Don’t tell Merrill.”

Fenris snorted. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

The smile became brittle, but Hawke managed to keep it. “Well… no worse, I suppose. Hoping tomorrow is everything they’ve made it out to be.”

He didn’t sound hopeful at all, which was unlike him. Fenris raised one eyebrow. “Where is all that famed Hawke confidence?” Hawke had made the best of impossible situations for years, without ever letting near-certain defeat faze him – and always emerging triumphant, against all odds.

Hawke toyed with the book beside him, flicking one page over and then turning it back. It reminded Fenris of nights in Kirkwall, poring over a text together in front of the fire place until he could begin to make sense of the words. “I don’t know,” Hawke said. “I guess it’s hard to be too confident when you can’t e...” he dragged in a gravelly breath and began to cough, making it impossible for him to finish his sentence.

Fenris grabbed the cup of water from the side table and held it out for Hawke; eventually, the coughing petered out enough that he could drink. Hawke laid back against his pillows, holding a hand to his chest.

“Well,” he rasped. “If this ritual thing doesn’t fix this I can at least hope it finishes me off.” He gave a crooked smile, as though it were a joke, but Fenris wasn't so sure.

It made him more determined than ever. Hawke hadn’t clawed his way back from the dead to be defeated by this.

“It will work,” Fenris said firmly. “I will make sure it works. I will bring the Hawke confidence for you.”

“Ah, damn,” Hawke said, smiling again. “Stop being so cute. It’s not fair.”

“I am not cute,” Fenris protested.

“You have no idea.” Hawke laughed, hoarse but genuine, and it was enough of a relief that Fenris didn’t bother to argue further.

Cullen had thought he was early, but he was clearly not the first to arrive; the inner door to the Inquisitor’s room stood open, and he could hear the murmur of voices within.

There had been a lot of argument about where best to hold the ritual. Even in a place as large as Skyhold, it wasn’t easy to find the right combination of space and privacy to attempt a working of this kind. The mage tower was fairly well-equipped, but it was poky and cluttered compared to the Circles. The rotunda had the available space, but was far too public; they could not risk anyone interfering with the mages’ concentration in a spell as delicate as this.

Revem himself had volunteered his quarters, with Dorian’s blessing, and then ultimately had to insist on it as half the involved parties protested that they couldn’t possibly intrude on his privacy in that way. For his part, Cullen had to admit it made a lot of sense – the room was large and open, well-lit and warm. And certainly there would be no unexpected arrivals wandering into the Inquisitor’s own bedchamber.

When he reached the top of the stairs Cullen found Hawke was already there, resting on the settee with Merrill beside him. Revem and Dorian were working on stowing the more delicate of their belongings safely in the closet.

“I’m sorry again, Inquisitor,” Merrill said in that lilting voice. “I just wanted to make sure Hawke was all settled in before everything starts.” She looked up at the tall man beside her. “You never did convince me to leave the blood magic be, but this is almost reason enough. I can’t even watch, let alone help.”

“We’re already going to get a lot of unwanted attention from the Fade,” Dorian said frankly, disappearing into the side room with a glass decanter and an armful of frail-looking books. He emerged a moment later, dusting off his hands. His expression softened, and he leaned against the stone wall behind him with a little sigh. “We just can’t take any additional risks.”

“I do know,” Merrill said miserably. “Letting me be part of it would be like… taking a wounded halla into wolf country.” She traced the net of fine scars on one forearm absently as she spoke. “I’m sure you’ll look after Hawke, Dorian. I think you’d be a match for any demon I’ve met.”

“Well, I’ll do my best to keep the less savoury residents of the Fade from interfering. The rest will be mostly up to Finn.” Dorian tugged at one end of his moustache.

“You called?” the mage in question asked, jogging up the last few steps of the stairs. Finn was, as always, unconventionally dressed for a mage – a shirt and breeches under a jerkin in grey-blue quillback leather. Ariane followed him a few steps after. Where Finn seemed to vibrate with nervous energy, Ariane was quiet, her brown eyes sharp as she took in the scene.

Cullen wondered how she felt about this scheme – he was worried enough for Fenris, but Finn was likely most at risk. He and Ariane had set out from the White Spire intending to help Hawke, it was true, but they could not have anticipated unknown Fade injuries and untried magic spells.

Fenris arrived a few moments behind them. He had been wearing his armour when he left Cullen’s room that morning, but it was gone now. Without it, he looked… fragile, and vulnerable, even to Cullen who knew so well the iron strength in his slim frame. It also made the lyrium much more apparent, snaking over the dark skin of his bared arms and down his throat beneath the open collar of his jacket.

Cullen intercepted him at the top of the stairs and pulled him into a quick, fierce hug. “It will be all right,” Fenris murmured, though Cullen wasn’t sure whose benefit the words were most for. The elf's hands were trembling and almost too tight, but when he pulled back his face was impressively composed.

After that, it didn’t take long for the whole group to assemble. Varric arrived, chatting idly with a trio of robed mages – one was the young woman who Cullen had seen tending the sending crystal. The elven alchemist, Elan, came almost soundlessly up the stairs, carrying the tinctures she had prepared for Hawke.

The last arrival was one Cullen had not expected: Knight-captain Briony, in her full expedition armour and with her short swords at her back. The three mages who had arrived with Varric looked worried by her presence, bending their heads together in murmured conversation as they stared at her. Cullen was acutely aware that he, in his own armour and with his sword belted firmly to his hip, had not attracted the same suspicion – he who of all templars should have attracted their disdain, after Kirkwall.

She moved to stand beside Cullen, who raised his eyebrows as he appraised her. “Knight-Captain?”

“I am here at Lord Pavus’ request,” she informed him softly. Indeed, Dorian was already approaching, his expression grim.

“This isn’t quite physically entering the Fade.” Dorian gestured, sweeping his hand out to encompass the room as he spoke. “But it’s about as close as magic goes – and spirit healing is designed to attract attention. I’m good, but contingencies are good too. I wanted the Knight-Captain here, just in case.”

Cullen blinked, somewhat stunned. There had been times in his life when he had looked at mages and seen only potential abominations. Somehow, he had never imagined the same fate befalling his friend.

“Don’t worry, Commander,” Dorian said, patting his arm. “I have no intention of letting any demons get the best of me.”

“I will only watch, unless the Inquisitor commands me otherwise,” the blonde templar added, raising her voice just slightly for the benefit of the mages across the room.

Revem nodded. But as Briony bowed and moved away, Cullen saw him catch Dorian’s elbow. “Do not make me do that.”

Dorian kissed his forehead, right below the braided section of hair. “I will do my best, amatus. And you know, my best is quite something.”

Revem walked to the centre of the room, looking around himself expectantly at those assembled.

All other scattered conversation died away, eyes turning to him. “The Inquisition owes Hawke a great debt. He has been not only the Champion of Kirkwall, but a great champion of the Inquisition as well. I thank all of you for your willingness to aid him now.” He turned to Finn and Ariane, who stood hand in hand, and gave a graceful bow. “The floor is yours, Senior Enchanter.”

Everybody seemed to know their roles without prompting. The small gallery of observers and moral support – Ariane and Cullen, along with Knight-Captain Briony and the Inquisitor himself – gathered along one side of the room, while the mages waited closer to the stairs. Fenris and Varric helped Hawke across to the bed.

As soon as he was seated on the edge, Merrill darted in to wrap her slender arms around Hawke in a tight hug. Then she drew back, her wide eyes shining, and hurried from the room – as though she was worried she wouldn’t be able to make herself walk out if she didn’t do it at speed.

As he watched her leave, Cullen caught sight of a distinctive hat and a pair of blue eyes peering through the railing: Cole. The boy seemed hesitant, almost fearful, and he made no move to come all the way up the steps. His glance flitted from figure to figure, and Cullen had the distinct impression that if anyone made a sudden loud noise he would bolt like a rabbit.

The alchemist gave Hawke one potion first. As soon as the bottle was uncorked, a sweet floral scent filled the room. “That must be the ambrosia then?” Finn sniffed delicately.

“You know, I’d heard stories of magisters of old putting ambrosia in their bath water,” Dorian mused. “But I thought it was just senseless showing off, and having more money than sense. I didn’t realise it actually smelled good.”

One of the other mages, an older elven woman, looked at him skeptically. “Why would they put something in their bath that didn’t smell nice?”

Dorian shrugged. “At very fancy parties in Tevinter, they decorate the food with flaked gold. Just tastes gritty, but it’s ludicrously expensive and so it’s all the rage.”

“Magisters,” the woman said, rolling her eyes.

“Quite.” Dorian grinned at her.

Hawke eyed the small bottle in his hand. “Well, here goes,” he said. He drank it in two swigs, then handed it back to the alchemist with a comedic grimace and a groan of distaste. “Does not taste like it smells, that’s for sure. Though…” he frowned thoughtfully, “still better than most of the house options at the Hanged Man.”

Varric chortled, and even Fenris smiled.

The alchemist watched Hawke carefully for a moment, before she nodded her satisfaction. “No ill effects – it would have happened very quickly with something this strong.” She held out the second bottle, even smaller than the first and filled with a clear blue-green liquid. “This one will send you to sleep, Champion.”

“Okay.” He took it, but he didn’t drink it straight away. Instead, he looked around at everyone in the room. “I just wanted to say – thank you, everyone. Whatever happens, I know you’ve put everything you could into making this work. And I really appreciate all of it.” He nodded to Finn, who inclined his head graciously.

“Sweet dreams, Champion.” Elan said.

“Creators protect you,” Ariane added.

“Catch you when you wake up, Hawke.” Varric clapped his friend on the shoulder, smiling despite misty eyes.

Hawke uncapped the vial, looking at it suspiciously, and threw it back in one swallow. “Mmm!” He smacked his lips. “Why couldn’t it have been two of those?”

Elan pursed her lips. “Because two of those might stop you from breathing.”

“Well, I guess that would rather defeat the purpose.” Hawke gave her the second empty vial, shifting back on the bed.

Fenris stepped forward, and laid his bare hand carefully on the Champion’s arm. “See you soon, Hawke.”

Hawke gave a tiny nod, for once lost for a witty remark. Or perhaps it was the potion taking effect - as he lay down, his eyes already looked heavier, and before he could even get both legs up onto the bed, he was asleep. Varric and Fenris had to finish the job, laying Hawke out carefully before Varric moved away from the bedside.

Finn stepped smoothly forward to claim the space. “Okay, everyone get ready please,” the spirit healer said. He sounded confident, a tiny frown of concentration on his long face. He knelt down beside Hawke, his hands resting lightly on the bedcovers, very much like a man praying to the Maker.

Fenris mimicked Finn’s pose, and Cullen’s stomach clenched at the careful, rigid way the elf lowered himself into the posture – Fenris hid his fear well, but Cullen knew.

The other mages settled into position – Dorian at the foot of the bed, seated cross-legged on the ground, while the other three took the recently vacated settee.

Dorian winked across at Revem before he closed his eyes, straightening his back with his hands resting atop his folded knees. As he did so, Cullen could feel the long-familiar prickle of magic up the back of his spine and neck like a static charge – dulled now, without the use of lyrium, but unmistakable. Beside him, Briony straightened, though she held her footing as she watched the mages work.

Finn took in a slow breath, then let it out.

Fenris, kneeling on the floor beside the sleeping Champion, beside the mage who was about to attempt a miracle using Fenris himself as fuel, lifted his head to seek out Cullen. His eyes were wide, and Cullen could see the heaving of his chest from where he stood as the unmistakable tingle of magical power concentrated in the room.

Cullen tried to convey everything he felt without words: You’ll be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you. I love you.

Fenris breathed in slowly, and out again, his eyes never leaving Cullen’s as a brilliant blue-green glow built around Finn’s hands. Finn reached out his three-fingered hand, holding it over Hawke’s chest.

Beneath Hawke’s skin, something responded. A few tiny motes of light glimmered into being across his torso, bright enough to show through the fabric of his shirt, then more and more as Finn’s spell caught hold. The glow bloomed across Hawke’s face, still relaxed in sleep, and spread down each limb. In the air immediately below Finn’s hand and above Hawke’s chest, a wisp of a different magic gleamed, this a more poisonous, shining shade of green; the Veil was thinning.

Soon Hawke’s whole body shone. Unlike the gold that had once poured from his eyes and stole through his veins, this saturated every tissue and lit even the air around him, so that he gleamed like a human lantern. The shred of Fade-light became brighter too, until it was almost a tiny rift – the Fade so close it was like a window viewed through a gauze curtain.

Towards the stairs, the elven mage who had spoken earlier tipped sideways to brace herself against the back of the settee. “You can’t take that much!” she called, gasping.

Ariane shifted beside Cullen, leaning forward where she stood, and it was only then that Cullen turned his attention to Finn himself instead of the spell building inexorably before him. Sweat stood out across Finn’s face, though his colour was pale, and he was gasping for air as he urged the magic on. Finally he gave a minute shake of his head – he tilted slightly to the side, grabbing onto Fenris’ arm almost as though he had been about to overbalance. The whole time he kept his other hand perfectly in place above Hawke’s body, the spell continuing uninterrupted.

Fenris’s head bent down as the brands flared into life, his hair falling forward to mask his face from Cullen’s view. But his bare hands gripped the coverlet on the bed, closing tighter and tighter until his knuckles were bloodless from the pressure.

Magic flooded the room, an almost-audible hum that made Cullen’s teeth ache. Cullen took a half-step forward, unable to stop himself, before he forced his feet to hold where they were. Fenris would be all right. He would be. He had to be.

Drawing on the lyrium brands, Finn’s spell flared brighter still, and the blue green light stretched up to surround the opening in the veil.

Fenris was trembling, his arms shaking as his fingers clenched harder into the fabric in his hands. Finn’s hand clutched tightly onto Fenris’ arm, and Cullen thought he could actually see the gleam of the lyrium brands pulsing inwards towards that point of contact.

Finn didn’t move, didn’t blink, he just stared fixedly at his work. Sweat was rolling down his face now, but he showed no other sign of the strain. The power in the room continued to build, the central point of his spell so searing-bright now it was painful to look at.

Between one blink and the next, Cullen thought he saw a flicker of… something else, dark red seeping in behind the green. Briony sucked in a breath beside him, just as Dorian straightened in his seat and made a dismissive gesture. Whatever he had glimpsed, it disappeared as quickly as it came.

Now Finn’s three-fingered hand was slowly, slowly, beginning to close, the hum of magic increasing to a whine now that Cullen was sure he could really hear – faint and intermittent.

Then he realised it was Fenris. Fenris, his Fenris, was whimpering in agony as the power was drawn out of him.

Cullen took two steps forward again, but Dorian’s face flashed up with an expression of sharp reproach. “Not yet!” he ordered.

Fenris folded forward, crumpling against the bed, Finn’s good hand gripped onto his arm, implacable, as the other eked towards closed. Magic moved in a frenzied whorl around the weakening in the veil, the threads connecting it to Hawke becoming a visible stream.

Beside Finn, Fenris’ head tilted up. Blood streamed down his chin from where he'd bitten through his lip, actually steaming where it contacted the lyrium there. He opened his mouth and screamed.

Finn’s hand snapped closed. The blue-green that had flared around and over Hawke like a bonfire dispersed into the air like mist, fading from view. Finn sat back on his haunches, finally letting go of Fenris.

It was over – but it was not over.

The rift – for it was a rift, now, a tiny gap of green with a familiar flat, oily sheen, shifted light and dark behind its mirror surface. “Oh no you don’t,” Dorian muttered to himself, lifting both hands this time. But then he swore, reeling back in his seat as his eyes snapped open. “Fasta vass. Revem!”

The Inquisitor did not hesitate. He moved next to Cullen, his left arm coming up. An arc of green like a lightning bolt snapped between him and the widening rift; something shrieked behind that flat surface. For a few heartbeats the tension built, ratcheting higher even than it had during the ritual itself, with a crackling rush like a great fire. Finally Revem brought his arm across, clenching his fist closed, and with an audible crash the rift was wrenched closed.

The windows exploded outwards, showering the balcony and grounds below with shattered glass.

Cullen ran to where Fenris had fallen to the floor beside the bed. The elf lay on his side, curled around himself. “Fenris–” Cullen reached out to push back the hair from his lover’s face. Fenris’ eyes were screwed shut, and his breath hissed in between his teeth. Blood seeped down his jaw and throat. “It’s over,” Cullen tried.

Then he snatched his hands back – the lyrium markings beneath Fenris’ skin were hot, hot enough to burn even someone who touched them from the outside.

Cullen’s face snapped up to Finn. The healer swayed on his knees beside them, his sweaty face blotchy and pale. He was staring at his hand – not the one that had conducted the ritual, but that which had drawn power from Fenris. A branched line and three dots marked his palm, bright red and angry. “Finn!” Cullen barked. “Help him!”

Finn’s gaze wandered down to Fenris, and that seemed to snap him out of the trance he had entered. With a little exhalation of dismay, he crouched down over Fenris’ form and laid his hands – gently this time – over the man’s burning skin. He took in a deep breath and slowly, so slowly, a pure green light began to spread over Fenris’ skin. It was wan, the healer almost drained to the point of exhaustion.

After a few moments, the light flickered and stopped, and Finn sat back on his haunches. He was visibly shaking. “That’s all I can do for… for now, I’m afraid,” he stammered.

All at once, his eyes went blank, and he fainted. Cullen barely managed to catch him before he fell onto Fenris’ still form – and then Ariane and Briony were there to help. They half-dragged, half-carried the lanky healer aside.

Cullen carefully laid his hands on Fenris’ arm once more, right below the four semi-circular divots left by Finn’s nails.

The lyrium below was cool again, the burns over them lessened. But Fenris was unconscious.

Revem helped a rather wan Dorian to his feet. Varric and Elan were checking on the other mages – one looked weak and shaky, but they seemed to have come through it all right.

It was Cole who finally crept up the stairs and across to the bed, staring with his head cocked at its sleeping occupant. A breeze drifted through the ruined windows, trailing a few strands of blond hair across his face. “It… helped,” he murmured.

As Cullen stood, lifting Fenris up into his arms, he looked down at the bed.

Hawke slept, his breathing rising and falling softly – his lungs clear of the congestion they had borne all these weeks. The ritual had bored a hole right through his shirt, so that the the result of their work was immediately apparent: where the ugly mass of scar tissue had once been, there remained only the faintest trace of the reddened whorl, now faded almost pure white.

Fenris had expected nightmares. But when he finally drifted awake, he could recall only darkness.

He managed to get his eyes to open, and the scene before him made him think that perhaps he was dreaming after all. Seated in a narrow wooden chair beside the bed, leaning forward onto his folded arms, was Hawke. Hawke whose colour was back, who looked – well. Who smiled when he saw Fenris looking at him.

“Fenris!” He straightened, laughing in relief.

From the other side of the bed, Fenris heard another familiar voice – “Fenris? Thank the Maker.” With difficulty – he hurt everywhere – Fenris turned his head around to see Cullen seated there. He was clearly tired, his stubble longer than Fenris had seen it and his hair ruffled, but his smile was brighter than the sun.

Fenris stretched out a hand, and Cullen enveloped it in both of his.

He stayed holding on as Fenris turned his head painfully back to stare at Hawke. “You look…”

Hawke breathed a soft laugh, and quickly opened the top two buttons of his shirt. When he pulled the fabric aside, Fenris could only stare at the healed expanse of skin there, marred only by a faint scar.

“It worked?” Fenris asked uselessly, despite the evidence in front of his eyes.

“Yes, it worked. Apparently I have you to thank for that.” Hawke shook his head, part wondering and part exasperated. “I’m – I’m very, very grateful Fenris. Shocked. A bit – I mean, you could have warned me, even if I might have tried to talk you out of it.”

Fenris smiled wearily up at Hawke, who looked so much himself again, and knew that whatever the man might say it had been worth it. “I almost talked myself out of it enough times, Hawke. If I had given you a chance to do the same, it would not have happened.” He nodded, satisfied with the work.

“Well.” Hawke scratched at his beard. “I owe you,” he said finally. He stood – easily, gracefully even. Fenris stared. “And now I’ll leave you to it. I’ve spent enough of the past three days sitting here feeling jealous of this lucky, excessively handsome bastard.” He tilted his chin at Cullen. “I’m going to go see who’s in the sparring ring.”

Fenris watched him leave, then turned back to Cullen. He felt a bit overwhelmed. “He’s walking. He’s sparring?” Fenris levered himself up onto one elbow, wincing at the ache in his limbs. “Three days?”

Cullen smiled at him, and he looked so loving, so relieved, that Fenris pulled carefully on his hand to bring him closer. “Kiss me,” Fenris urged.

Cullen bent to oblige him, dropping Fenris’ hand so that he could cup the elf’s face gently. He moved to draw away, but then darted in for another quick kiss. “Maker but I’m glad to see you awake.” Finally he settled back onto his chair. “Yes – three days. Hawke is supposed to take things slowly, but you know how he is. Finn healed you after he had rested, but then he said you just needed to recover.”

“Healed me?” Fenris asked, frowning.

“Yes,” Cullen said slowly. “You don’t remember?”

Fenris glanced down at his arms, but could see nothing amiss. The lines were as he had remembered them – so much for reducing the lyrium, as the mages had discussed that day in the garden meeting room. “I just remember that it hurt.” He said. A particularly sharp wave of that aching pain went through him, and he reached first to his shoulder and then to his lips, wincing. In both places, he found no damage.

“The lyrium got so hot, it burned you. You gnawed your lips almost to pieces. Finn’s nails left gouges on you.” Cullen turned his face down, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he struggled to keep his composure.

Fenris forced himself to sit up, and was nearly overcome by a wave of dizziness – but it was worth it when Cullen looked back up and reached hurriedly out to steady him. Fenris took the chance to lean into his lover and bring his arms up around Cullen’s shoulders. “I am sorry,” he mumbled.

“I’m – not sorry, exactly,” Cullen said, his voice quiet. “I’ve known since well before this started that you are not a man who will stay safe. The ritual worked. And you woke up.” He loosened his grip just enough so that he could draw back and look at Fenris’ face. “I just ask that in the future, if someone is going to hurt you, it be someone I can run a sword through.”

As Fenris chuckled, Cullen moved forwards all the way off his chair, so that he was on his knees beside the bed much as Fenris had been when the ritual began. He wrapped his arms firmly around Fenris’ slim waist and pressed the side of his face against his chest.

Fenris ran one hand over Cullen’s tousled blond hair and let the other slip around his broad shoulders.

“I…” He cleared his throat. “I love you,” he said, voice soft.

Cullen looked up at him, and his expression said it before the words even left his lips: “I love you too.”

Chapter Text

“I am reconsidering the wisdom of this,” Fenris said warily, gripping tighter around Cullen’s waist as the horse carried them across the bridge.

Cullen winced as the gauntlets dug into him, but he didn’t comment on it: Fenris’ strong arms wrapped around him and that baritone murmur in his ear were worth a few jabs. “The wisdom of sharing a horse? Or of subjecting yourself to my siblings?”

Fenris’ horse had cast a shoe, thankfully when they were already in sight of the bridge. They had left her in the care of the farrier who serviced the farmers here. Fenris could have walked; Cullen was rather delighted when Fenris instead took him up on the offer to ride double.

Fenris almost managed a chuckle, strained though it was. “The former. I can barely stay on when I have my feet in the stirrups.”

“Your riding is coming along,” Cullen reasoned. “And I promise he won’t go above a walk.”

The village gate stood open, not far from the bridge – Cullen could see the Arl’s keep perched in the foothills of the Southron range above the settlement, and beyond that the Brecilian Forest stretched up high over the undulating slopes and into the distance. A pair of guards stood chatting on the wall; they watched curiously as the horse carrying two riders ambled through, but made no move to stop them.

“I admit though – I’m a bit anxious about the siblings part.” Cullen shook his head. “Foolish, perhaps, but I haven’t seen them in years.”

“It is foolish.” Cullen fancied he could feel Fenris smile against his shoulder, despite the armour. “I saw the letter. Your sister couldn’t be more excited if the King himself was visiting South Reach.”

“Maybe. I can only hope she’s too excited to remember to scold me about all the years I didn’t write.” Cullen glanced at the packed dirt streets and the neat cottages that bordered them: it was quiet, this time of day, with the farmers, woodcutters, hunters all still out making the most of the daylight. There were a few children spilling from open doorways, the occasional man or woman out tending a garden plot or hanging washing. An elven man with braided red hair nodded to them from an open shop window; the smell of baking bread floated out into the street.

Fenris was quiet as they finally approached the house that had been described in the letter – a crisply whitewashed cottage with a dark thatched roof, and a distinctive diamond pattern in its timber framing. It was set to the west of the village, where there was sunlight for more of the day, and there was a burgeoning vegetable garden laid out in neat rows down the side of the place. A vine dotted with sprays of delicate white flowers clambered over the low stone wall in front of the property; there were more flowers lining the short row of stepping stones that served for a path. Fenris looked at the place as Cullen helped him down from the horse, and his apprehension was clear in his face.

“Fenris.” Cullen laid his hand on the elf’s forearm, then pulled him in close, sliding his arms around Fenris’ back beneath his cloak. “It will be fine.”

“What if they don’t approve?” He shook his head, a wry expression twisting one corner of his mouth. “I never had this fear with Hawke’s family – I knew they wouldn’t approve.”

Cullen pushed back a few loose strands of silvery white hair behind Fenris’ ear. “They will love you. How could they not? You’re incredible.” He leaned in to steal a soft kiss, and smiled against Fenris’ lips. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter even if they don’t. Nothing could possibly change the way I feel about you.”

“Nor I you,” Fenris said, his expression soft with fondness. “I am yours. Always.” His eyes flickered towards the house, and his lips quirked in amusement. “Uh – I believe we’ve been spotted.” Cullen glanced back over his shoulder: two small, tow-headed children were peeping over the windowsill at them.

Cullen took Fenris’ hand, squaring his shoulders. “Time to make our stand, then,” he said.

Hawke,

How are you? How is Kirkwall?

I am not surprised that you did not want to be Viscount again. But very surprised that Varric was willing. Between you, Kirkwall is in good hands. I am glad rebuilding is going well so far.

I am writing from South Reach. Cullen’s brother and sister live here. They seem to like me – maybe too much. His niece asks to braid my hair. So far I have avoided having flowers put in it, but she is very determined.

I hope you are well. Write when you can.

Fenris.

“Well,” drawled Bran from the doorway. “Isn’t this just sickeningly domestic?” He approached the bed, peering down his nose with a look of well-practised disdain.

Hawke grinned up at him, dropping the letter back onto the side table and folding one shin over the other beneath Bran’s sheets. “I don’t know. I thought it was charmingly domestic, actually.”

Bran clicked his tongue and turned away – not quite in time to hide the smile that tugged at one edge of his mouth. “Why are you still here, Hawke?” He sat on the edge of the bed and tugged off his boots. “This is turning into a bad habit.”

Hawke shifted position again, deliberately making the covers rustle. “Would it help to know I’m not wearing anything under this sheet?”

Bran glanced over his shoulder, scowling. “You are a deeply infuriating man.” He sighed and got to his feet again. “But yes.”

This time he climbed straight into Hawke’s lap, one knee either side of Hawke’s thighs as his hand stroked up the Champion’s bare stomach. His palms were not as smooth as Hawke had expected; he had been doing honest work, at some point, in all the months Hawke had been gone. Hawke leaned up, letting his own hands tangle in Bran’s auburn hair, and pressed a teasing kiss to those full lips.

Bran’s arms went around Hawke’s shoulders, and he dropped his face against the side of Hawke’s neck with a sigh. “Andraste, but I am glad you came back.” After a few breaths, he jerked back abruptly, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t you dare tell anyone, though.”

Hawke pulled him back down, chuckling. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”