A/N 5/31/14: Yes, I took a LONG time updating this story... but here is the next installment. Thanks to my Beta Reader, Tracy, for her support and candid critique of the chapters I send her, and thanks to my "Faithful Few" who continue to stick with this story. You all are the best!

As always, my readers and followers' opinions, suggestions, comments and criticisms are very appreciated. Feel free to PM or send me an email at any time!

Chapter Thirty

Fenris stalked through the entryway of the mansion he inhabited, slamming the heavy door behind him with as much force as he could muster. He winced as the sound reverberated, pounding its way loudly through his head, a painful reminder that he had drunk too much ale last night.

He gave a cursory look around him as he made his way to the right-side staircase that led to the upper level of the mansion, making sure that nothing was amiss. In all the years he had resided here, there had only been one instance where he had arrived home to find an unwelcome guest. Well, if he did not count the times he had returned and found that damnable spirit-possessed mage, Anders, waiting for him, that is. The first intruder he had thrashed to an inch of his life and, after that, word quickly spread that if one valued one's life it was better to avoid this particular mansion at all costs. As for the mage…unfortunately he had yet to find a solution that would not put him on Hawke's shit list.

Then again, after what transpired between he and Hawke over a week ago, he was probably already on that list- right there at the top. Therefore, theoretically, he could rip the abomination's heart right out of his chest and not worry that he would sink any lower in Hawke's esteem. One side of his mouth quirked upwards at the thought, and he took the remaining steps two at a time until he reached the landing at the top.

Slowing his pace, he reached up over his shoulder to grab the hilt of his sheathed sword. He sucked in his breath with a sharp hiss and grimaced. He pulled the weapon gingerly from its holder and brought it to the forefront, keeping his movements careful and slow. He swore under his breath when he noticed fresh drops of bright crimson blood rolling down his arm and onto the hilt of the sword he held in his hand.

Relieved of the heavy burden of the somewhat cumbersome weapon, he rolled his neck in a slow circle, trying to relieve some of the tension in his sore muscles. Moving towards the room he used as his main living area, he glanced down at the long blade he held, noting that it would now require a more thorough cleaning before he set out on his next job later that day.

Entering the middle room, he walked to the rectangular table set to the left of the entrance, and placed his sword upon the scarred, wooden surface, taking care not to upset the half-empty bottle of wine and the pewter goblet that sat nearby. Looking down at his right hand, he noticed the splattered stains of red on his gauntlet. He lifted the arm and gave careful appraisal to the deep slash across his bicep. It would require stiches. Pulling off the bloodstained glove with a small grimace, he set it down beside his weapon. Removing the other one, he placed it beside its twin, and then turned away from the table.

His green eyes swept the room, his gaze first going to the nearly filled bookcase against the wall, and then moving to the twin wooden benches angled before the hearth. His gaze swept upward to the fireplace's mantle and then stopped when he spied the small, nondescript box almost hidden behind a tall brass candelabrum. He made his way across the room and returned to the table with the square container in hand.

Taking a seat at the head of the table, he unlatched the cover of the box, and turned it upside down, emptying the container. A small, loosely bound roll of white cloth, two makeshift leather pouches and a half-empty vial of liquid tumbled out and landed onto the surface of the table. Tossing the box to one side, he frowned at the meager contents it had contained.

Opening the smaller of the two pouches, and peering inside, he shook it a little and then frowned again. Casting it aside, he picked up the remaining pouch and then discarded it when he found it to be as empty as the first. Standing up the vial, he set it carefully to one side until he required its use.

Hawke had always made sure that his "emergency healing kit", as she had called it, was well stocked should he ever need to tend to an injury when she- or that mage- were not close by to heal him. Though he hated to admit it, he had become used to not having to rely on his limited medical training when it came to tending to his own injuries. He was well versed in the art of battlefield triage, for it had been a necessary part of life when he had lived among the Fog Warriors in Seheron, and before then, when he lived in Tevinter, there of course had been a ready supply of mages able to treat the sick and injured. Here in Kirkwall, he had always relied on Hawke or Anders for healing; therefore, he had never had reason to use any of the contents in the box. Until now, that is. Recent events had changed everything in his life.

The muscles in his jaw worked as he clenched down against the dull ache he felt in his chest. He did not know which pain was worse- the one caused by the marauder who had slashed him with his knife, or the one gripping his heart whenever he thought of Hawke and the decision she had made. Deciding to ignore the latter, and fix the former, he stood from his chair and went in search of a needle and a length of strong thread.

Pulling open the double doors of his wardrobe wide, he perused its interior, looking for the sewing kit that he had last seen sitting atop the shelf. After a moment, he spied the curved edge of the woven basket peaking out behind a loosely folded garment of deep blue. Stepping forward to remove the sewing kit from its hiding place, Fenris reached up to push the material aside, but then curious as to what it was, he hesitated, and then pulled it off the shelf instead. Letting it unfold to hang down before him, the diaphanous material felt soft and silky to his touch as he held it aloft.

It was one of Hawke's chemises.

The ache in his chest grew sharp at the sight of the familiar piece of clothing. He remembered the last time she had worn the garment… how she had looked standing in the moonlight, looking at him with such an expression of wanton desire and longing, that an overpowering need to posses her had filled him to the point that he had ripped her chemise in his passion to claim her once again as his own.

A faint fragrance clung to the torn garment he held, teasing him with that familiar womanly scent that had never failed to inflame his desire further. Even now, at the memory, after inhaling her scent, his body betrayed his great need for the woman he still loved and wanted.

With an angry growl at his own weakness, he rent the delicate garment into two pieces and then threw the destroyed chemise to the bottom floor of the wardrobe. Grabbing the woven basket that held the sewing supplies, he stepped back and, ignoring the pain from his wound, slammed first one door shut, and then the other, with an emphatic bang.

"My, my Fenris… did the wardrobe somehow offend you?"

He turned at the sound of the sultry voice, and eyed the dark-haired elf. She was clothed in armored leather that protected, and yet flattered, the shapely curves of the petite figure it encased. He met her steady gaze, her eyes the color of deep violet that sparkled with amusement. "Hello, Lilith."

Her cheeks dimpled as she smiled at him. "You were making such a racket I wager you never heard me enter this ruin of a place you call home, never mind this room." She folded her arms across her chest, and arched one dark, tapered eyebrow at him.

Fenris felt a stab of irritation at failing to hear her approach, and for allowing himself to be caught unawares in such a private moment of emotional turmoil. Walking to the head of the table, he set down the sewing basket and then looked at Lilith as she stood at the opposite end. "What do you want?" The chair legs scraped along the tile floor as he pulled it backwards using his injured arm, and then he dropped into the seat with a pained look.

Lilith's smile faded at his grimace of pain. "You're hurt, Fenris." Unfolding her arms, she walked around the table to stand by his chair. "Let me see your arm," she demanded. She leaned over him to get a better view of his injury. "You're going to need stiches," she said, her tone matter-of-fact.

The light scent of sun-kissed heather surrounded Fenris and his gaze drifted to valley between her breasts as she leaned closer to him. His groin tightened in reaction to his male appreciation to her womanly curves. His body reminded him that it had been much too long since he had bedded a woman; his mind pointed out that it had been by his choice. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, and pulled his head backwards to a safer distance.

Finished with her examination of his wound, Lilith straightened up and then stood looking down at Fenris. "I can understand you not wanting to go see that Healer in Darktown, but why didn't you just go see her and ask her to heal your arm?"

"You know why," he replied in a tight voice. He would be damned if he asked that woman for anything ever again, not after what she had done. The muscles in his cheek flexed. He was not about to give Hawke one glimmer of hope that he would soon forgive such a betrayal of his love and trust.

"Some women never seem to appreciate a good man," Lilith stated. She gave him a quick, dimpled smile, her gaze warming as she looked him over. "I, of course, am not such a woman. I am very good at showing my… appreciation."

Fenris appraised Lilith, taking note of her blatant interest in him. She, like him, worked for Athenril, on occasion as a mercenary, and they had gone out on jobs together quite often in the past. Lilith was one of the few people in Kirkwall that he trusted to have his back should things turn lethal, and she had never tried to take more than her fair share of the cut. She was one of the few, rare individuals that he called a friend.

He stared back at her, his expression cautious as he considered the idea of making their relationship more…personal at some point. The idea of making love to a woman that was not Hawke was foreign to him, and he actually felt extreme guilt at even entertaining such a thought. He scowled at his feelings of self-reproach, but quickly assumed a more passive expression when he heard Lilith's soft, throaty laughter.

"You look as if you've just been caught stealing alms from a blind, one-armed beggar," Lilith said, amused. She leaned over him again, bringing her lips close to his ear and then whispered, "Never feel guilty for going after what you desire, Fenris. I never do."

He clamped down on the unwanted rush of desire he felt when she nuzzled her nose against his sensitive ear. Feeling as if a hot iron had just branded his skin, he jerked his body away, jarring his injured arm. He let out a quick hiss of pain and shot Lilith a dark look when she stood upright, and then moved away from his chair with another throaty laugh.

"I am so pleased that I can amuse you," he growled at Lilith. He lifted his injured arm, moving it forward to rest his elbow on the surface of the table. "Make yourself useful and fetch me a bottle of whiskey from that cupboard in the corner," Fenris ordered testily. His wound pained him more at each moments passing, and he was dead tired and still fighting the lingering results of too much drink. Unless he got a few hours of sleep, he feared on his next job he would not be able to perform his duty to his employer in his usual proficient manner.

He was reaching for the needle and black thread when Lilith returned with the bottle of whiskey. She set it down before him, and then took a seat at the side of the table. Fenris grunted his thanks. Taking the bottle, he uncorked it and poured a small portion of the alcohol onto the needle, sterilizing it.

"You should wash that wound out with soap and water before stitching it closed, Fenris," Lilith suggested.

"The whiskey will be enough." Steeling himself against the coming pain, he lifted the bottle and poured a liberal amount of the whiskey over the deep slash in his upper arm. He muttered a Tevinter curse beneath his breath when the alcohol burned a path into the deepest part of the wound. He wished the damned marauder was alive, and standing here before him, just so he could kill him all over again in repayment for all the trouble he had caused him this day.

He felt Lilith's eyes on him. He glanced over at the female elf. "What?" he asked, with a sigh. He started to set the whiskey back down on the table, hesitated a moment, and then lifted the bottle to his lips. Tilting his head back, he drank from the bottle, gulping down several mouthfuls in quick succession. Setting the bottle back down, he wiped his mouth dry with the back of his hand.

"I still think you should have one of the Circle mages heal that wound."

"No." The word was emphatic, his tone colder than ice. "The wound will heal fine on its own- without the use of magic." If he never found himself in the company of a mage again, it would be too soon. He would have to be at death's door before he would even consider getting help from any mage. He took the needle and attempted to thread its eye with one end of the black thread.

"Has anyone told you that you are one stubborn elf?" She sighed and then reaching over to him across one corner of the table, she grabbed the needle and thread from him. "Here, let me do that before you bleed to death."

Fenris's annoyed frown was short-lived when he realized that his wound had indeed started to bleed again. He could not afford to become weakened by loss of blood- it would put him at a serious disadvantage should he come up against any opposition on his next engagement he had later today.

He noticed that Lilith had already finished threading the needle, and reaching out for it, he gave her a quick half-smile of gratitude. She shook her head and pulled her hand away from his reach.

"Oh, just let me handle this, Fenris. I've seen some of the results of your handiwork- you'd make a poor tailor." She stood to her feet and gave him a look of expectation. "Well? Stop frowning at me and give me your arm already."

Fenris raised a brow at her but did as she commanded. He was too tired and in too much pain to argue. Besides, she was a little handier with a needle than he was, and her stitches always looked neater.

He tried to remain quiet and unmoving as she stitched his wound close, but more than a few swears slipped from his lips when she put the needle through the meatier part of his flesh. Beads of sweat stood out across his forehead by the time Lilith had finished the last stitch and tied off the end of the thread. He let out a long sigh of relief that stirred the ends of his long bangs.

"Thank you, Lilith," Fenris said after he had examined her handiwork. She had done a good job, and though he would have a scar once the wound fully healed, he did not think it would be too noticeable.

"Those markings of yours will probably hide whatever scar remains," Lilith remarked, as if reading his thoughts. She gave him a playful smile. "Not that I mind a few scars, mind you… they can be rather sexy on the right person."

Fenris gave her a slow smile, responding to her flirtatious nature. "Oh? You find scars sexy?" His eyes skimmed lightly across the features of her lovely face, dipping for a moment to her pink, full lips, then back up again to meet her eyes.

"I find a lot of things sexy: Scars…tattoos… dangerous, lanky elves with a penchant for brooding." Lilith gave him a rather lusty grin.

Fenris smiled again, and then replied, "Good to know." An image of a pregnant Hawke filled his mind, clouding his emotions, and his smile disappeared.

"Really, Fenris," Lilith said laughing, "How you can even feel guilty for just thinking something, is beyond me. Why don't you save up all those pesky, useless feelings of guilt for a time when you actually do something worthy of such guilt?"

"That's always been my motto," Anders said as he entered the room. "But then, I've never gotten a woman pregnant, abandoned her, and then moved on to greener pastures, so to speak." He eyed the two elves. "In that case, a little guilt would seem almost appropriate, don't you think?"

Fenris snarled and rose up from is seat, but found he was unable to move any higher when Lilith clamped a hand down hard on his shoulder. She kept applying pressure downward until he gave up and reseated himself.

"Mind your injury, Fenris," she cautioned softly. "We have a job to do later, remember?" She gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze, and then turned to look at the mage, eyeing him with some interest.

Anders moved to the end of the table, and then stopped, directing his words to Fenris. "We need to talk." His gaze flickered to Lilith, then back to Fenris. "I'm sure your," he paused slightly, raising one brow, "friend won't mind if we talk alone."

"Aye, 'friend' is an accurate enough term- for now," Lilith replied with laughter in her voice. She looked Anders over. "Wait- you wouldn't happen to be the one all the lovelies over at the Blooming Rose have been talking about? The mage that does that erotic thing with the electricity…" Her eyes widened at Anders expression. "It is you!" She gave a throaty laugh in delight, and then glanced sideways at Fenris. "Well, that almost explains why she left you for him."

Fenris bristled at Lilith's teasing, and then muttered an unflattering expletive under his breath. She laughed, and after giving him another friendly squeeze on his shoulder, she leaned over and gave him a quick peck on his cheek.

"Well, I'm off. I have a few things that need to be taken care of before we set out tonight." She straightened and removed her hand from his shoulder. "I'll meet up with you at the usual spot." Turning from Fenris, she walked away, her hips gently swaying as she crossed the room.

Anders and Fenris watched her depart. Lilith passed by Anders so close, her right hand brushed against his coat. She glanced sideways at him as she passed, giving him a dimpled grin and a wink. Anders turned around to continue watching the dark-haired elf walk away until she exited the room and passed out of sight. Turning back around, he looked at Fenris and raised both eyebrows.

"You have no idea what you are getting yourself into, do you?" Anders shook his head. "I've seen her type before and that one will cause you nothing but trouble."

To Fenris, the notion that any woman would be as troublesome as Hawke was laughable. He gave the mage a derisory snort. He was in love with the most troublesome woman-most troublesome mage- ever to be born into this world. He doubted Lilith would ever come close to causing him as much trouble as Hawke did on a daily basis.

"What do you want, mage?" Fenris eyed Anders with unconcealed rancor. "You are not welcome here."

Anders gave a careless shrug of his shoulders. "I'm an Apostate, in case you've forgotten. There's not too many places where I am welcomed these days." He pulled out one of the chairs at the opposite end of the table and then seated himself. "I told you why I'm here- to talk."

"I have nothing to say to you, mage."

"Fine, then you won't be interrupting me while I'm speaking then," Anders replied. He stared at Fenris for a moment in silence, his expression serious.

Fenris stared back at him, noting with some satisfaction that the mage had an air of wariness about him, as if he was not too sure of his own safety.

"Do you know who Barit is?" Anders asked, abruptly breaking the uneasy silence between them. "No of course you don't," he muttered, not waiting for an answer. "If Cat hasn't told me, she certainly hasn't told you about him."

Fenris bristled inwardly at what Anders was inferring, but managed to keep his outward appearance from showing his sincere desire to throttle the mage. It stung, for the sad truth of the matter was that Hawke probably would confide in Anders first… because she trusted the mage more.

Putting aside that uncomfortable and undeniable truth, Fenris studied the man at the end of the table much in the same way a predator might examine an opponent that had crossed into its territory.

"Listen, elf. I'm worried about her… she's…" Anders frowned, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, and looked away from Fenris to stare out the far window. The fingers of his left hand drummed out an erratic pattern against the tabletop as the features of his face took on a worried expression.

Frustrated, Fenris leaned further forwarded on his seat, his body now tense as a newly strung bow. "Finish your words, Anders, or I swear, you will next find my hands about your throat and I will wring the words from you."

Anders gave him a thin smile. "Well perhaps you still have feelings for Cat after all, elf." The smile left and his expression sobered. "If I knew exactly what was going on inside of her, I would tell you. She barely sleeps or eats anymore. She is slowly losing herself to…" His voice trailed off with a troubled sigh, his shoulders slumping downwards. After a tense pause, Anders continued on, his voice low and strained with worry. "She won't tell me what's wrong and I don't know what else to do to help her."

"And so you have come to me… to have me do what, exactly?"

The look Anders fixed upon him had Fenris feeling slightly daft for asking the question. What did the mage expect him to do? Hawke had made it abundantly clear whom her priority in the relationship was- Anders- so let him deal with whatever was wrong with her.

"I always knew you were a bastard, but I never pegged you for a complete and utter unfeeling bastard," Anders said with more than a little rancor. "I've warned Cat right from the beginning that you were not right for her, but for some unfathomable reason she is most happy when she is with you. She actually loves you; despite how wrong you are for her, and despite how many times you have turned your back on her." Anders lips curled upwards, almost as if he had caught the scent of something particularly unpleasant.

"I have never turned my back on Hawke. I am not the one that has constantly embroiled her in schemes and foolish endeavors that have not only put her life at risk, but have also put her in direct conflict with just about every templar in Kirkwall." The cold, inimical gaze he imparted to Anders would have sent most men fleeing from the room in fear for their lives.

Anders mouth turned upwards in a sarcastic smile. "You really don't understand Cat at all, do you? Just because you may have shared her bed, doesn't mean you actually know the woman. If you truly knew Cat, you would realize how utmost important it is for her to fight for the rights of all mages- be they Circle or Apostate." Anders leaned back in his chair; the hint of an amused, but cold, smile played across his face. "Besides, you above all people know that no one can make Hawke do anything that she doesn't want to- no matter the ultimatum."

Fenris almost flinched as Anders' barb hit home, but he carefully schooled his face into an expressionless mask.

"I need you to know something," Anders suddenly said, breaking the tense silence between them. "When Hawke told me what had happened between the two of you, I tried to talk her out of her decision."

Fenris raised one of his dark brows but remained silent.

"Don't get me wrong- part of me was delighted that there was a chance of getting you out of her life- but I am not so self absorbed that I couldn't see how much it had devastated her to make that choice." Anders frowned at the memory. His gaze dropped to the floor at his feet and he spoke softly, almost as if speaking to himself, "For some reason she is unable to let our friendship go… is afraid to let it go."

"Why?"

His head jerked up as if startled, and he stared at the elf for a long moment. "Well, if I knew the answer to that I certainly wouldn't be here talking to you now, would I?" His gaze grew thoughtful again. "But it must have something to do with that man she and Carver argued about… the one they called Barit."

Barit. Fenris somehow knew Anders presumption was correct. But who was this man? And what connection did he have with Hawke and her present state of mind? It both puzzled and worried him that this man might have something to do with the unraveling of his and Hawke's relationship. Nothing made sense.

Anders rose from his seat and adjusted his clothes. He gathered his staff and turned to leave, but stopped when Fenris spoke to him.

"What makes you so positive I make Hawke happy?" He asked the question almost grudgingly. "Why do you now readily accept that she does indeed love me?"

Anders studied Fenris for a moment. "Tell me… you can tell by the way a woman kisses you if she is really in love with you or not, right?"

"Of course," Fenris responded, slightly exasperated that the mage would not just answer his question. His eyes narrowed at Anders when the mage turned and then sauntered away, and he wondered if he had even intended to answer his bloody question. Fenris started after the mage with growing irritation when Anders, reaching the doorway, suddenly looked back over his shoulder at him, his mouth quirked into a lopsided grin.

"Well, so can I."