A diversion into the Dragon Age world. Not properly an AU, but I have played with the DA2 Act 3 timeline somewhat. Again the style is a little different to my other stories. Reviews are always welcome.

Pathways

"You know," Hawke said, and pushed gloved fingers through her hair. "The next time I get a message from the First Enchanter, I'm going to pretend I never saw it."

"No fun in that," Varric responded.

He slung his crossbow over his shoulder, his gaze turning shrewd as he studied the half-expected results of Orsino's summons. Blood mages, crumpled alongside their templar allies, and Hawke counted far too many of them as she quartered the courtyard again.

"Empty?" Varric asked.

"Empty." She turned again, nodding to Isabela where she stood, one elbow lodged against the wall as she waited. Next to her, Anders settled his staff against his shoulder. "No, I know. I'll tell him the dog ate it."

"That's fascinating, Hawke," Varric muttered. He crouched, his hands flitting across one of the templars, finding buckles and a leather pouch. "Want to know what I just found?"

"Your own weight in gold." She joined him, squinting down at the curl of parchment in his hands. "Useful?"

"If you want to go to the docks and kick some more templars around."

"Tempting." For a long moment, she stared at the scrawled letters, too aware of the slide of sweat at the back of her neck, and the ache in her shin, throbbing after she had taken an awkward tumble away from a templar's sword. "Alright," she said. "Let's go and break into another secret meeting."

Templars and mages, she thought. She checked the weight of her sword, and the dagger slung at her other hip, and breathed in the brisk night-time air. Templars and mages, and the Gallows all stifling with the threat of something, something she did not entirely want to think about, something that had led to blood mages in the shadows and templars desperate enough to join them. The city was seething with it, and she could feel it, every day she marched up the long slope to the empty keep, every time she stepped into the engulfing silence of the Gallows.

The docks were quiet this late, the darkness freighted with the sharp tang of salt. Wordlessly, Hawke padded alongside Varric, Isabela at her other side. How many days, she wondered. How many days had they done this, walked the city at night, crossing and re-crossing its cobbles, for any reason and no reason?

The days had run into years, too many of them, she thought, since she had clambered out of the ship, her boots scuffed and soaked and reeking of the sea. There had been the qunari, and the nerve-prickling darkness of the Deep Roads, and the stupidly big estate with its opulent library and high arches, the rooms emptier and emptier as the days crawled past.

Gently, Isabela nudged her, and murmured, "We're here."

"Good." She rolled her shoulders, stiff beneath leathers that already needing a decent brushing. "Shall we do this the usual way?"

"You mean the way that has me doing something utterly spectacular?" Isabela said, her teeth flashing in a smile.

"Of course," she said, wryly. "Don't you always?"

"I try."

Isabela teased the door open, her fingers fast and deft at the lock. Hawke stepped past her, unsheathing her sword in the same motion, the weight of the blade reassuringly familiar when she tilted her wrist slightly. She saw torches first, and the shimmer of the harbour beyond, lapping at the long line of the wharf. Then the raw gust of the wind, heavy with the scent of brine, and she was aware of movement in the gloom, footsteps and the clank of mail.

It was over quickly, the rhythm of it brutal and implacable. Anders called a rippling wall of flame, the heat of it blurring the air, and Varric flanked him, his crossbow rattling as he fired, and fired again. Hawke stayed shoulder-to-shoulder with Isabela, both of them spinning their way through the chaos.

The silence descended afterwards, and Hawke worked her way over them all, the templars and the mages, checking pouches and belts and robes and bags. She heard Isabela call out something about scouting around, and nodded absently in reply. She found handfuls of copper, inconsequential letters with broken wax seals, whetstones, and little else that might tell her why they were wasting another night sifting through the tangle that was Kirkwall.

"Hawke?"

She straightened up. "What is it?"

"Found a friend," Isabela answered. "And he might even be a talkative friend."

Hawke frowned. She crossed the floor and found herself looking at a pale young man – she knew him, she was sure she knew him, from somewhere – standing with his shoulders rigid and Isabela's knife leveled at his belly.

"Keran, right?" Varric said genially. "Now what might you be doing here?"

"I didn't know," the young man said. His eyes flickered. "I didn't know what they'd be doing."

"Alright." Hawke rested her hand on her sword hilt and added, "Start making sense. What were they doing?"

"You don't know?"

"If I did, I wouldn't be asking you."

"This was about hurting the Champion. Hurting you."

"So far all they've done is make me traipse my way through the whole damn city at night when I'd rather be in bed. Or at a tavern."

"No," the young man said, his throat shuddering as he swallowed. "This was about targeting you, Champion. About finding a hostage."

"I don't like that word," Hawke said, her voice still even. "Explain."

"Some elf," the young man mumbled. "Some elf they found."

"What elf?"

"Some elf from Tevinter."

Viciously fast, she grabbed his collar and dragged his head down and lodged her dagger beneath his chin. "What elf?" she snarled, even though she knew the answer. "White hair? Strange markings?"

The man nodded, his eyes flickering nervously. "Yes. Yes, that sounds right."

"Where?"

"The coast. I can," he said, and tried to inch away. "A day's walk. Half a day if you make it fast."

"Where," she said, the word flat with anger.

He muttered something else, something about a sharp outcropping, obvious and jagged, and the way the path would wind down and around before plunging down towards the sea. She pushed away from him, slamming the dagger back into its sheath.

"Hawke," Varric said, from somewhere behind her.

"We're going. We need to go. Now."

"Yes, I know, and if you want us to walk straight into an ambush unprepared, you won't have the chance to save him." Varric caught her elbow, his fingers clamping hard onto her sleeve. "Hawke."

"Yes," she snapped. "I'm here."

"You're not," he said pointedly. "Go check his mansion."

"How many elves with white hair from Tevinter do you think are around here to get kidnapped?"

"Do it, Hawke."

She swallowed. The anger swirled up again, raw and painful, and beneath it, that hollow ache that she had been damn sure she had shoved aside. Breathed her way through it, and grappled with herself, and shaken herself, and gotten back up and walked through it. They had both picked themselves up, she thought, stilted and strange as it had been at first. They had both picked themselves up and spoken and ignored the silences between their words and pretended.

"Alright," Hawke said, and felt some of the tension slacken in her shoulders. "I will."

She let herself in through the unkempt wilderness of the garden. As quickly, she ran to the courtyard door. She hammered at it three times before she gave up and clawed her way up the wall to the biggest kitchen window. As she had done before – and so had he, at least once, on a drunken bet – she eeled her way through the narrow gap at the top, her belt catching on the sill before she kicked her way onto the floor.

Inside, the kitchen was splotched with light, the pale grey of early dawn. She strode past the long, dust-coated tables and abandoned chairs until she was in the high-roofed hallway beyond, as untenanted. She shouted his name and took the stairs two at a time. "Fenris? Are you in here? Fenris? Are you home?" She paused, breathing hard, her hand curled over the banister. Uselessly, she added, "It's me."

The sun was properly up and half-hidden behind a swathe of cloud by the time she stalked into the Hanged Man. She made herself respond to Corff's amicable shout of welcome before she strode down the corridor and into Varric's rooms.

"Not there," she said, when he lifted his head. "And yes, I checked every room. And no, I didn't find him face-down in the wine cellar."

"Shame," Varric replied mildly. "Alright. I've got supplies all tidied up here, and we've got the others on their way."

"Varric," she said, and opened her mouth to snap something at him.

"No, Hawke," he responded, maddeningly calm. "We are not going charging down the coast, just you and me and Bianca, however good our chances might be."

She exhaled, the breath leaving her chest in a shuddering rush. "Sorry."

"No need." He caught her arm. "Now sit, have a drink, and we'll be on our way very soon."

She was tempted to argue, but he was wearing that gently obdurate expression which she knew meant she might have better luck arguing with the wall. She gave in and sat, wrapping her hands around the tankard he pushed across to her.

She gulped at the ale and said, "You know what's almost funny?"

"Humans are always funny to me, Hawke."

She snorted. "He's always been there. Now he's not, and I feel like someone just punched me in the gut."

Varric's face softened. "We'll get him. And you two can go back to brooding at each other. Or about each other. Whichever version you're currently in the middle of."

"Thanks," she said wryly.

"You want to sleep?"

"I thought the rule was that I have to be falling-down drunk before you'll let me sleep here."

"I can make exceptions," Varric said.

"You're so sweet." She shook her head. "I'll be fine."

The coast was hazy with the mid-summer heat, the water a sparkling blur where it hugged the tumble of rocks and empty strands. Dry trees clustered between saw-edged outcroppings, and walking between them, Hawke wondered how many times they had done this, come stampeding out to the coast for someone, or something, or anything. The ground turned to sand quickly and early, and each step was dragged slow. Eschewing patience, she pushed on faster, the others following, one hand locked on her sword hilt and her mind a mire of too many thoughts.

She remembered how they had come here years ago, and lingered afterwards, the two of them, not quite looking at each other. She had kicked her boots off and run in the sand, the slide of it strange and gritty. She had found a stick and traced patterns, circles, his name, her name, a rough hulking shape she swore was meant to be her mabari.

She called a halt, and ordered enough time to eat. She perched on the edge of a boulder beside Varric and bit into the ragged chunk of bread he pushed into her hands.

"I meant it," she said, idly. "Next message. Next anything. I'm not doing anything."

"You know, you fight the Arishok, you have to expect some kind of reaction."

"Yes. Like money, or thanks. And it wasn't the fighting the Arishok that did it."

"Duty," he said, sardonic. "And no, I know, it was the winning the fight."

"Wonderful."

"You like it."

"Sometimes," she admitted. "Not right now."

"Come on," he said, and clapped her shoulder. "Should be getting close."

The path circled down through the grey shadows of high cliffs, and Hawke noted the way the sand was churned here, ruffled into thick lines. The scrubby brush was broken where it fringed the path, and she found herself wondering how many they would find. Carefully, she drew her sword, and motioned the others on. The ground sloped down again, and she heard Varric muttering something about too many damn mages.

She noted half a dozen, easily, and more templars, their armour burnished. They were waiting, she thought, all of them standing poised and patient, as if they had stood like that since sun-up, waiting for her. One of the templars turned, and she recognized Thrask, his face quarried with tired lines, shadows beneath his eyes.

Thrask's expression shifted, and he gestured to the others. He turned, opening his mouth, but before he could speak, Hawke looked past his shoulder.

She went rigid. They had him, and they had him flat on his chest and tied at the wrists and suddenly her skin was on fire with the anger. They had touched him, dragged him out of the city and here and she was almost too late.

"Let him go."

"Serah Hawke," Thrask said. "We can talk this through. Surely we can talk this through."

"I will not talk anything through while you have my friend tied up. Let him go."

One of the mages stepped forward, her lavender robes dragging against the ground. Grace, Hawke thought venomously. Grace and they'd let the bitch go and now she was here.

"We won't be letting him up," Grace said, and smiled.

Hawke drew her sword. She was aware of the others behind her, shifting slightly, the creak of leather and metal that she knew meant Varric was bracing himself to fire.

"Let him go," Hawke said, every word granite-hard. "Or else I'll have this sword buried in your throat before you can even think to cast."

"Wait," Thrask said, lifting one hand. "We need to talk about this. Serah Hawke, I am sorry for this situation."

"Are you," she said flatly. "Then back away and let him up."

Afterwards, she was never entirely sure who moved first. Herself, or the ratcheting thunk of Varric firing, or Grace, her hands flaring red. Someone screamed, and the air was full of the roar and rush of magic. Mechanically, she moved, darting beneath the swing of one templar's sword, and darting past the arc of another's. She dropped into a crouch, her dagger flicking out and finding the crease at the back of the templar's knee. She vaulted past him, aware of the thunder of blood in her ears. Her impetus carried her into one of the mages, and the marrow-deep cold of some spell threw her back. Someone shouted her name – Varric, she thought, and close to panic – and the mage toppled, his throat gushing around the quarrel of a crossbow bolt. She scrambled upright, her skin prickling, and moved on, fixing her attention on another templar.

Grace fell last, her hands blood-slick and slackening.

Hawke straightened. She was bleeding, she realised, bleeding from a shallow slice along her shoulder, and another that had nicked her forearm.

"He's alright," someone was saying, and she recognized the voice. Alain, she thought, and he had been with Grace, all those months ago, that day when they had trailed a group of runaway mages into twisting tunnels.

She turned, and snapped, "You're certain?"

"Grace did it. I'm sorry," the mage said, softly. "You want me to wake him up?"

She nodded. She waited, fingers curled against her palms, while the mage knelt, his hand ghosting against Fenris' shoulder. She saw the pale surge of the magic, and made herself wait again when he stirred, when he blinked, when he rolled himself unsteadily upright.

"Hawke," Fenris said. His eyes were clouded, with exhaustion or the spell or something else. His head turned, as if he was taking in the sand and the spread of the water beyond the rocks. "You're here?"

Blindly, unthinking, she folded her arms around his shoulders and pulled him against her. She heard his sudden, startled gasp, and then he was curving his head against her neck, pressing his face against her, his bound hands sliding against her belly.

"Fenris," she managed. His hair was in her eyes, sweat-spiked and stinging, so she closed them. "I thought I'd lost you."

She held onto him, desperately she held onto him until they were both leaning into each other.

"No," he said, eventually, his mouth moving against her hair. "You didn't. You won't."

Somehow she straightened up, and somehow she loosened her locked grip on his shoulders. She turned her face too quickly, and her cheek slid against his, and she felt his startled, shuddering response.

"I'm sorry," she said. She was too close, her mind screamed at her. She was too damn close to him and she could feel him breathing against her lips, uneven and rapid. "I should get you untied."

"Yes." He lifted his wrists, still lashed together. She worried the knot apart with her dagger. As carefully, she peeled the leather ties away and saw the abraded skin beneath, all bruises and raw red lines crossing over the lyrium marks. "How long did they have you?"

"Two days," Fenris answered. "I think."

"Maker, Fenris," she said, her gaze still on his hands. "When you bruise, it turns you into such a mess."

Fenris choked out half a laugh. "I suppose it does."

"You know," she said mildly. "I never thought that I'd see you for cards at the Hanged Man and then have to come all the way out here a few days later to find you."

"How did you?"

"The usual way. I got a very fancy, very ornate letter from the First Enchanter, then we had a fight with some blood mages, and that got us all the way down here." When his forehead furrowed, she added, "It's a long story."

Without entirely allowing herself to think too much about it, she brushed her thumbs across the outside of his palms. Rough and wiry and she was certain he was going to gather himself away from her. Instead, he rested his forehead against hers so that he was that close again, that unsettlingly, wonderfully close. She gripped his hands – hard enough to hurt, she was sure – and felt the frantic clinging pressure of his fingers in response.

"Hawke," he said, sighing her name out against the messy whorls of her hair.

"We need to go," she said, as quietly, hating that she had to say it, hating that she would have to step away from the sheltering weight of him.

"I know." He moved then, finally, his chin dragging against her hair. "I know."

"You know," she said steadily. "We've nothing to hurry back for. We could take our time getting home."

She thought that he would leap on the words, on how she had said home and not back or there or something equally inoffensive. How the words had been clumsy and come out half-pleading and he had to know that.

"Yes," Fenris said, his eyes still locked on hers. "Perhaps we could do that."

The afternoon wore on, and slowly, they left the outcropping behind and worked their way back up to the coastal road. After they called a halt, Hawke took herself to the edge of the road, and then down, her feet finding a tiny weaving path that dropped down to the strand below.

There she sat and watched the rushing, grey sea. She dug her hands into the sand and rubbed the rough grains between her palms.

"Hawke," Fenris said, from somewhere behind her. "May I join you?"

She patted the sand. "Join away."

He sat, dropping into that graceful cross-legged pose. His hands and arms were bare, she noticed, though he still leaned his sheathed sword against the sand.

He cupped his hands over his knees and said, "You found me very fast."

"Not fast enough."

"Hawke," he said, gently admonishing.

She stared at the pewter curl of the waves. "They'd taken you. I hated it. I hated them for it. Fenris?"

"Yes?"

"How did they find you?"

"I was stupid," he said, his voice jarring. "There were a lot of them. I killed four of them."

"It wasn't stupid."

"It was," he said fiercely. "I let my guard down and they had me. And all I could think about was that I had not been able to tell you."

She swallowed, whatever she wanted to say catching in her throat. She could see the bright crest of the foam as the waves dipped and crashed and collapsed. "I went to your mansion."

"You did?"

"Varric made me," she admitted. "I just wanted to come charging out here and find you."

"So impulsive," Fenris said, teasingly, and she flicked sand at him.

"Next time I'll leave you there," she retorted.

Fenris chuckled, low in his throat. "You were a most welcome sight."

"That's a staggering compliment. Maybe the best ever." She wondered if he could hear it, the core-deep, frightening honesty in her words.

"Hawke," he said, and his voice faltered slightly.

"No," she said, softly. "It's alright. You don't need to say anything." The sea sighed, and she said into the aching quiet, "I missed you."

"I missed you," he said. "I thought that perhaps I had looked my last upon you."

"Never," she told him.

She was aware of him nodding, and that suddenly he was moving, sliding himself closer. His shoulder brushed hers, and he said, "Are you tired?"

"No. I should be, but I'm not."

"May I stay out here with you, then?"

"Of course," she answered gently.

The sun sank away, and the air turned chill. The wind combed over the grass above the dunes. Hawke huddled herself deeper into her cape and eyed him sidelong. "Aren't you cold?"

He shrugged. "A little."

"You're not human," she muttered.

"Evidently," he retorted.

She snorted. "Very amusing."

The night swallowed the waves until all she could see was the blurred white edges of the breakers. "Sometimes," she said, aware of Fenris' listening, poised presence beside her. "Sometimes I wish I could just stay out here."

"You'd starve."

She glared at him. "Eventually, yes. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yes," he answered. "I do know what you mean. But you would not."

"Wouldn't I?"

"You know you wouldn't. You have too much to do."

"You know," she protested. "I was simply commenting on something. I didn't ask to be skewered."

"You would miss your dog. And your library."

"Yes, thank you." She scowled at him. "I rescue you, and all you do is make fun of me?"

"Forgive me."

"Perhaps," she said archly.

The silence rose up again, companionable and patient, and she listened to the heave of the spray. Eventually she shifted, and realised that he was shivering, the motion barely there, his hands hugged against his own arms and his head turned away from the wind.

"Maker, you're stubborn," she murmured. Without asking permission either way, she shed her cape and arranged it around his shoulders. "You're welcome, by the way."

His fingers sank into the blue folds of the fabric. "I was fine."

"We've talked about this before," she told him. "Just say thank you."

He mumbled something and she was vaguely sure it was not remotely complimentary. Even so, he stayed there, his green gaze pinned on the blur of the waves.

"It seems," he said, and shook his head.

She reached down and scooped up a handful of sand. She let it spill between her fingers, clumsily and awkwardly.

Finally, he said, "It seems so easy for you."

"What does?"

"This," he growled, angrily. She heard his sudden, startled inhalation, and he added, "I'm sorry."

"Tell me what you mean."

"This," he repeated, almost whisper-quiet. "Today. Coming for me. Sitting with me now. This. Everything. Us."

"Fenris," she said. "We've been doing this a long time now. I save you, you save me. We raid each others' wine cellars and then swear never to get that drunk ever again. We hit slavers until they can't stand up. I kill a dragon, and you help."

"I help?" he responded, and she saw him smile slightly. "This was different."

She wondered what she could say to that, what she could say that would not sound like something accusing or pleading or both.

"I thought you would hate me," Fenris said, and the words sawed between them, edged and painful. "I thought it would be better if you did hate me."

"I almost did," Hawke answered. "Maybe I did. I don't know."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I don't know," she snapped. "It hurt and I was angry. Maybe I did hate you. But then I realised that you weren't going anywhere and neither was I." The truth rolled off her tongue, sharp and furious and half stolen by the wind. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't've said that."

Wordlessly, he shook his head.

"If you're tired, I'll be fine here," she said.

"If you want to be alone."

"I didn't say that."

"Then I'll stay," he said, and she could have sworn he was half-smiling.

The moon was rising, she saw, half full and clear. She wasted idle minutes staring up at it before she became aware that he was moving. She heard the rustle of cloth, and when he furled the cape around them both, a strange, aching kind of laugh caught in her throat.

"Fenris?"

"Yes?"

"I'm not saying anything."

The warmth of his arm was inches away, but he did not slide closer. She saw his answering smile, and he said, "Don't worry. Neither am I."

She was not sure how long she sat, aware of nothing but the cool sand beneath them and his reassuring, poised presence beside her.

"Fenris?"

"You're talking," he admonished her, mildly.

"Yes. Can I ask you something?"

"Of course you can."

She hesitated, weighing the words. Truth, she thought, sometimes cost too much and cut too deep, and she wondered if either of them should hear this. They needed to, she thought, halfway to bitterness. But need had nothing to do with shoulds or should-nots.

"I want to ask you something, and I'm afraid it will come out all wrong. Promise you won't storm off until I get it right?"

"Hawke," he said warily. "How terrifying is this going to be?"

"I don't know yet." She kept her gaze pinned on the shifting sea. For another instant she steeled herself. "Why did you leave?"

Beside her, he froze. "You asked me that."

And she had, she remembered, she had blurted it out, her head spinning from two bottles of wine and her skin needled with the anger. She had snarled it at him, far too soon, far too quickly, and he had snapped back that he didn't know, couldn't know, it was a mistake.

"Was it true?" she asked. "What you said then?"

"What I said then," he echoed. "I said because I was angry. I thought it was true."

She did not speak, only turned so that she could see his face, all hard angles beneath the glossy white mop of his hair.

Eventually, uncertainly, he said, "I thought it was the pain and the memories, and perhaps it was. I've thought about it a thousand times. I tried to have it make sense."

She waited, aware of his gaze on her face and the way his fingertips were digging against the sand.

"I was a coward," he said quietly, bluntly.

She reached for him, covering the back of his hand with hers. She felt him recoil, the wiry muscles in his hand stiffening.

"I'm sorry."

"No," he said, as quickly, cutting across her. Before she could gather herself away from him, he shifted, rolling his hand so that his palm was against hers. His fingers tightened around hers, rough grains of sand scraping between them. "No," Fenris said again. "Don't be sorry."

She woke to the blustery chill of the dawn, and the heaving surge of the sea. Stiffly, she sat up, and the folds of the cape slipped away. She squinted into the pearl-grey morning, half aware that she had been foolish enough to fall asleep on the shoreline. Blindly, she reached out until her fingers bumped her sword hilt.

"Hawke," Fenris said, from somewhere behind her.

"Mmm," she responded. "Yes?"

When he moved, she finally saw him as he sat cross-legged on the sand beside her. "Did you sleep well?"

"I'm not sure," she replied honestly. She scrubbed a hand through her rumpled hair. "I drifted. I think I dreamed. Are you alright?"

"I tried to stand up earlier and got rather pointedly reminded that I spent too long being tied up on the ground."

She laughed. "Lovely."

"Hawke," he said, and stopped. "When we get back."

"When we get back," she said. "I thought I'd have a bath, and then I thought I'd find the biggest bottle of wine in the cellar and I wondered if you wanted to share it with me."

His gaze flickered. "The wine?" he asked.

She spluttered on another sudden, constricting laugh. "The wine," she said lightly.

The road unfurled its way back to the city, and back through the familiar rise of the gates, and through the streets, already humming with the summer heat and the clamour of footsteps on cobbles. She farewelled Varric at the tavern, and Isabela afterwards, and then Anders, promising all of them that they should meet soon, preferably at the Hanged Man, and preferably with a lot of ale. She chose the longer way through the winding avenues up into Hightown, too aware of Fenris as he walked beside her.

At his mansion, he stopped, the door half-open. "Hawke," he said, hovering, one hand on the frame.

"Yes?"

"I will see you tonight?"

There was a tenuous, hopeful note in his voice that made her ache. "Of course," she said, smiling.

At home, she slept first, flopping full-length and fully clothed in bed, her boots half off. Her mabari huffed quietly on the rug, her huge head on crossed paws as she dozed. Afterwards, she washed up and found clean clothes – tunic and leggings, and a shirt that was mostly patch-free – and ducked back downstairs. She found Bodahn and Sandal in the kitchen, halfway through an early dinner, and bumped into Orana in the garden. She told Orana she was likely to be gone for most of the evening, and when she explained where, she got a slightly wry smile in response.

Earlier than planned – the sun was still up, heavy and warm, the city still drenched in heat – she made her way across the two streets and around the corner. She knocked, and when the door swung inwards, Hawke tried to stifle the absurd trepidation that had its hooks in her belly. Stupid, she thought. She had spent almost as many days inside the shadows of his mansion as she had in hers, she was almost convinced, and today was no different.

They had spent so many days, leaning over parchment and ink, over glasses of wine and half-empty bottles.

Days when he had listened to her voice and her silences, the way she had been unable to frame words after that terrible, wrenching day in the echoing chambers beneath the foundry. The way he had tried to find words in the days after he had let Varania walk away, after he had stalked out of the Hanged Man with his hands and his sword heavy with Danarius' blood. When she had talked about Lothering, and haltingly, he had talked about the dripping green trees of Seheron.

When he had told her that he did not know – could not know – who he had been before the markings, and slowly, she had understood what that meant. How she had fled her life and he did not know his. How she had begun to read the small changes in his voice, how he had begun to hear the changes in hers.

Days when she had been sitting on the table in his dining room, parchment unfurled around her, her fingertips smudged with ink, while he watched the slow, dipping motions of the quill. The ink, spreading glossy and black while she wrote his name and hers, and slowly he copied her. Days when she had hauled him into her library and sat him down, and waited and waited while he wrestled with the words. Days when he had marshaled her outside and pushed her through sword-drill until she was sweating and furious.

No different, she thought, except that it was, because of the sea and the slow walk back to Kirkwall and the strange, longing promise she thought she had seen in his face.

"I brought wine," she said, before he could speak.

Fenris smiled crookedly. "I do have my own wine cellar, you know."

"Now you're just being difficult. We can drink yours afterwards."

His smile widened a fraction. "Come in."

She nodded and trailed him over the threshold and up the wide, curving stairs. She stayed wordless until she placed the bottles on the table beside the window. The afternoon sunlight spilled through, patching the floor and the edges of the fireplace.

"Glasses?" she asked.

"Here," he said, and when she turned, she realised he was closer than she had assumed.

She jerked away and muttered, "Oh, Maker. I'm sorry. I didn't hear you."

"Hawke," Fenris said. His eyes found hers, level and green and steady. "What is it?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "You going missing, getting you back. I'm tired, I suppose."

Wordlessly, he unstoppered the bottle and poured. His gaze dropped to the red shimmer of the wine. She watched the graceful motion of his hands as he replaced the bottle and lifted the glasses.

He smelled of soap, she realised, soap and clean skin.

He pressed one of the glasses into her hand and she followed him to the windowseat. She drew her feet up and glanced down at the empty courtyard, tangled with green weeds, the high walls coated with coiling white flowers. He sat opposite, his shoulders trim against the grey wall.

"Hawke," Fenris said, very softly. "On the way back. We spoke of things, and…"

"Yes," she said, and looked across at him. "It wasn't easy, you know."

"Hawke?"

"What you said," she explained, and sipped at the wine. "You said I made it seem so easy. It wasn't. Maybe it was eventually. It wasn't then and it isn't right now."

She heard the sudden hitch in his breath. As uncertainly, his fingers tightened around the glass stem.

"Hawke," he said.

She heard the chiming sound as he lowered the glass. As tentatively, she looked up, and saw that his whole frame was coiled, terse and uncertain.

"I should have stayed," he said, his voice uneven and harsh. "I should have stayed with you."

That night, and she could see it in his eyes, deep and shining with something, perhaps hope.

"If you had," she heard herself say. "What would you have done?"

"I would have stayed and been with you. For as long as you wished." Fenris swallowed, as if the words were heavy and stubborn as he fought with them. "I would have stayed. I would have told you how I felt."

"What would you have said?"

"That nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you."

He was still looking at her uncertainly, as if he was unsure, as if he was almost afraid. She moved first, sliding herself closer, close enough that she heard his sudden, startled intake of breath.

"Fenris?" She gave herself the time to lay the glass down, to straighten up again. "You're sure this is what you want?"

"Yes," he said, half-sighing the word.

She was nervous, she realised, stupidly nervous and almost shaking. Very gently, she kissed him, brushing her lips across his. She felt the shuddering heave of his breath and then his mouth opened beneath hers and desperately he was kissing her back. His hands caught at her hair, framing her face, his fingers rough.

"Hawke," he mumbled, his lips sliding against hers. "Hawke, are you sure you…"

"You're talking," she said. She sought the eager warmth of his mouth again. "Why are you still talking?"

Fenris laughed. "I have no idea."

"Then don't," she told him impishly, her laughter joining his.

He tilted her face slightly, his thumbs rolling beneath the sharp line of her chin. His mouth covered hers, the movement of his lips and tongue insistent.

"Fenris," she managed. Her hands knotted at the back of his neck.

"Now you're talking," he murmured.

She laughed again, the sound lost between them when he claimed her mouth again. He tasted of heat and the wine and something feverish and wanting. Clumsily, she moved, pressing herself closer. He responded, shifting so that she was sitting across his lap, his shoulders up against the wall and her knees on either side of his hips.

"Oh," Fenris said, low and choked.

She leaned her forehead against his. "Is that alright?"

"Very alright." Tentatively, he slid his hands down to her waist. "Is that?"

"We have done this before, remember?" she said gently.

"I know," he said. "Would you think me foolish if I said that I was unsure?"

"No," she said. "I wouldn't. And you wouldn't be the only one."

"Hawke, I," he said, and stopped when she pressed her mouth against his temple.

She lingered there, lips against his skin, and felt the silent shudder that ran through him. His hand cradled her jaw, and she turned her face into his palm.

"Yes," he said, his whole frame going very still. "Yes."

She kissed his palm, rough and callused and striped with the lyrium markings. She took his hand, and somewhere between the windowsill and the table they ended up wrapped around other. She tumbled them both to the floor, aware of his surprised laughter and then his hands, deft and gentle and knowing as he explored her. She clung to him, her face pressed against his shoulder, and everything in her giving way beneath him.

Afterwards, he pressed trembling lips against her forehead. "Hawke."

She let her hands wander down the damp curve of his back. "You know something?"

"What?"

"We waited far too long to do that again."

He laughed. "There are ways to remedy that a little, though."

"Oh?" She kissed his mouth, and the sharp jut of his cheekbones. "Like what?"

"Like taking you to bed for the rest of the day."

"That," she said, and kissed him again. "Sounds like one of the best ideas you've ever had."

He gathered himself up and away from her, and somehow she wobbled herself up to her feet. She swayed, and he caught her, pulling her tight against his chest. For a long, breathless moment, she stayed there, pressed full-length against the wiry warmth of his body.

She turned her face against his chest, across the rough, raised lyrium, until she found the unsteady thump of his heart. "Where's your bedroom?"

"Where it's always been."

"Very funny."

She disengaged herself from his embrace, and they made it halfway across the room before she pushed him against the wall. Fenris gathered her closer, his thumbs smoothing over the swell of her hips.

"You're impatient."

"Your fault. You're naked." She nipped at the side of his neck, and the soft, delicate patch of skin just beneath his jaw. "And you taste good."

"Enough," Fenris said, smiling. "Upstairs, now. Before I carry you there."

"Is that a threat or a promise?"

"Both," he retorted, and ducked under her arms. He caught her around the waist and tugged her after him.

This time, they wove their way up the stairs and lasted until he led her into the bedroom. There, she grabbed his shoulders and spun him to face her, pulling his head to hers in the same motion. Fenris responded as fiercely, his hands finding her hips and yanking her hard against him.

His legs bumped the side of the bed and he let himself fall, taking her with him. She caught herself against his chest, too aware of the slide of his skin and the way his hands strayed through her hair, parting and parting the strands. She traced the wiry contours of him, half remembering him and half learning him again, scars and lyrium and the lean shift of his muscles beneath. She meant to make herself slow down, but she felt unmoored, floating, and when he surged up under her again, she lost herself.

She woke to lancing moonlight and the sleeping warmth of Fenris, all bare skin and silver hair and the white tracings of his markings. "Mmm," she mumbled. "Did you say something?"

"No," Fenris said. "Did I wake you?"

"I'm not sure." She shifted, stretching, suddenly aware of the way they were tangled around each other, the press of his arms and legs almost uncomfortable. "Sorry. Your elbow's sharp."

He rolled onto his side, one arm still curved over her. "Better?"

"Better. I'm not used to," she said, and swallowed. "I mean, I'm more used to stealing all the sheets for myself." She turned, and found him looking at her, his green eyes steady and searching. "You're alright?"

"Yes," he said. "Very."

"It's foolish," she said, and settled herself closer, close enough that she could lean her head against the inside of his arm. "I don't know what to say."

"Anything you like. Or nothing."

"That easily?"

"Maybe not," he allowed, and smiled. "I think I know what you mean."

"That sometimes it's easier to talk when you've got your clothes on?"

His smile stayed. "Easier, perhaps. This is rather enjoyable as well."

"It is." She traced the sharp lines of his face, and the softer corners of his smile. "Do you remember the rock wraith?"

"I don't think I'll ever have the good fortune to forget it."

She laughed. "Did I ever tell you I was scared witless when it threw you into the wall?"

"I was fine."

"You might have been. I don't think your head was."

"Fair point." He followed the line of her collarbone, his fingers mapping the slight dip beneath. "This. You. Us. I never thought…"

"Which is obviously why you never left me alone the whole way back to the city."

"What? I was worried."

"Says he who was the one who was kidnapped."

"It's strange," Fenris said. He found the column of her throat and stroked. "I hoped. I'm not sure when I let myself know that I was hoping. But I did."

"So all those times you came around to my library, you were actually hoping for something a bit more, ah, active than reading?"

He laughed. "I'm not answering that."

She found herself grinning, at him and with him, and when she rolled herself on top of him, he cupped his hands over her hips. "You know," she said, and leaned down until her mouth was a teasing inch above his. "I don't think you were the only one hoping."

Much later, the first pale touch of dawn edged the casements and painted stripes across the floor. She was sprawled in the sheets, watching while Fenris fumbled his leggings back on. He turned, not quite quick enough to hide the way he was smiling, open and warm and marveling all at once. Hawke idled long enough to comb her fingers through the bird's-nest mess of her hair. She found one of his spare shirts in his clothes chest – the fabric greyish and much-mended and soft – and slipped it on. She discovered him in the kitchen, halfway through arranging a plate and bread and cheese. She squinted into the sunlight and realised his eyes were on her.

"What?" Hawke demanded suspiciously. "What's funny?"

"You are," he told her gently. "You are also beautiful, and a thief, since that is my shirt."

"You weren't needing it."

"True. Are you hungry?"

"Starving."

She joined him, both of them sitting on the table, their legs swinging off the edge – hers bare and brushing his – and the plate between them. He reached for the carafe, poured for both of them, and asked, "Does this feel strange to you?"

"Not that strange," she said.

"No?"

"You have made me breakfast before. I'm sure I've done the same."

"Yes, but almost I'm sure I was wearing more those times. And I'm definitely sure you were wearing more."

"You were, but which do you prefer?"

The corners of his mouth shifted. "After consideration," he said, and leaned close enough that she could feel the heat of his bare skin, his shoulder cleaving against hers. "This."

Fifteen days later they argued, their voices clipping against the sun-drenched walls and their feet dragging dust and grime and blood in with them.

"Just what do you think you were doing today?"

"Excuse me?" Hawke glared over her shoulder. Below, her ribs ached, and she thought she could still feel the dreadful, prickling pull of the spell that had buzzed under her skin.

"This," Fenris grated.

She felt him behind her, his breathing hard and hot against the side of her neck. "Yes, alright," she said. "Can you help me while you shout at me?"

"I'm not shouting," he snapped. She heard the rustle of fabric as he found clean cloths, and then the shaking pressure of his hands over the mostly healed wound.

"Fenris, I'm fine."

"Yes, this time, and only because the mage was with us."

"Anders is very good. You know that. I'll be fine."

"You were foolish, Hawke," he said, his voice still heavy with anger.

"As if neither of us has been hurt before? As if neither of us has bled all over the floor before?"

"This is different."

"Why?" She turned then, and stared into his eyes, green and narrowed and simmering.

"Because I care, Hawke. I care about you, very much," he spat out, and she wondered if she looked as startled as he suddenly did.

"You know," she said, very gently. "Only you could make something that sweet sound quite that furious."

His shoulders relaxed slightly. "It's true."

"Talk to me."

"Seeing you like this," he said, his eyes clouding with something else, something softer. "And yes, before you say anything, before we…"

"Spent a few days making a mess of your bed?"

His face coloured slightly. "It's worse, I suppose now. Or maybe I just think it is, because now I can tell you."

"You're lucky I'm patient," she told him archly. "You do realise you just said that it's worse now?"

"That's not what I meant."

"I know," she said. She kissed the tip of his nose. "Fenris. It's alright. You can laugh. Or smile. Or just stop standing there like you're made of stone."

The tension emptied from him. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm getting it all wrong, aren't I?"

"This is new for me as well."

"Getting nearly killed?"

"Very funny." She glowered at him for a brief, unconvincing moment. "This. And I didn't get nearly killed."

"I know."

"We can take this slowly. More slowly. If you want."

"Hawke," he said, mildly admonishing. "I don't want. That, I mean. I want this, and you, and I know that I am going to worry every time you walk away from a fight half-dead."

"But?"

"But if it's me you're walking back to," he said.

"Fenris," she said, his name catching on her tongue. She caught his hands, his fingers locking hard around hers. "Then you can do that and I can do the same, and we'll make it work."

"That easily?"

"I don't know. I may not have mentioned this before, but I can't actually see the future."

Crookedly, he smiled. "Can I say something?"

"Of course."

Teasingly, he said, "I'm afraid it will come out all wrong."

Unbidden, she found herself smiling. "I can wait it out, I promise."

"I meant what I said. I want this."

"Oh, I don't know," Hawke said, and lifted his hands so that she could kiss the backs of his knuckles in turn. "I think that came out almost entirely right."

The sun sank over Kirkwall, and Hawke settled her shoulders back against the curve of the windowseat. She was indolently half-dressed, her shirt open at the throat and her bare legs tangled with Fenris' where he sat opposite her. Through the open casement, she could see the glitter of the harbour, the waves white-lipped as they surged against the wet gleam of the wharves. The air was heavy with salt and the last of the fading afternoon heat.

Eventually she moved, reaching for the bottle that lay between them, four inches of the wine inside already vanished. She straightened up in time to notice him watching her, half-smiling, the fall of his hair shielding his face.

"A good day?" she asked.

"A lazy day."

"The same."

"Perhaps," he allowed.

She handed the bottle across, her feet bumping his. He drained another mouthful before he abandoned the bottle, laying it on the floor. His hands found her waist and he urged her closer, close enough that she could rest her head against his shoulder, her knees almost meeting behind his back. She kissed his chin, her lips moving across the rough, raised lines of the lyrium.

"Did you want to stay here tonight?"

"Mmm," he answered, and she marveled at the ease in his voice, the amused lilt. "Whatever can you tempt me with?"

"Well," she said. "Dinner. Wine. A really big dog to sit on you. And me."

"You sitting on me?"

"Something like that," she said, and laughed. "Though with a slightly different intention."

He stroked up to the nape of her neck until his fingers were buried in the disheveled fall of her hair. "I think that sounds like a very good idea."

"I thought it might."

"You know me that well, do you?"

"Well," she said, and distracted herself by tracing the sharp slant of his ear. "Yes."

Fenris laughed. "Very well."

She leaned into him again, breathing him in. "I'm seeing Isabela in a few days."

"Oh? Is there some treasure she needs you to help steal?"

"No," she said pointedly. "I thought we'd play cards."

"It always sounds so innocuous."

"I'll let you know if there are any dragons."

Very gently, he cupped her chin and turned her head. "There was," he said, and faltered slightly. "Something I thought we should speak of."

"You can stay any night you want, or not, and I know the way to your mansion very well by now."

"Not that," he said, his tone still even. He kissed her, his tongue plying her lips apart. "The city. You can feel it, can't you?"

"Yes," she answered honestly, searingly honestly. "I can feel it and I think I've felt it for a long time now. I don't know what will happen."

"No. I wonder," Fenris said.

"I wonder, too. I wonder how it will happen. I wonder what it will take," she said. "It's as if we've spent years watching the city split apart around us."

"Then," he said, his voice roughening. "If that happens? When it happens?"

"Then," she echoed. "I would want this, and you. If you will come with me."

"If you will come with me," he said, and smiled.

"That," she said, and covered his smile with her own. "Is something we can argue about later."