In Salt and Gold
part three

-.-

Once, about a year after Leandra had died, Fenris had gone to the Hawke estate. He has vague recollections of meaning to fetch something he'd misplaced, the specifics made unclear with age, but he does remember being shown through the house to the small gardens behind it. Hawke had been there with Aveline, an open bottle of red wine on the stone bench between them, and he'd almost apologized for intruding before Aveline had waved off his excuses and Hawke had offered him the bottle. They'd been talking about Ferelden, and Lothering, and of happy homes they'd loved and lost, and the very idea had been so foreign to Fenris that he'd thought he might as well have left after all.

And then Aveline had told a story of running into a ludicrously exaggerated farmer named Barlin outside the Lothering chantry and Hawke had laughed with delight. "Aveline, that Barlin! Did I tell you Bethany got caught in one of his rope snares, once? I heard her shouting halfway across the field and when I got closer, she—ha!" Hawke had wiped away tears of mirth, her shoulders shaking. "She was hanging there like an apple! She almost—ha—she almost set me on fire!"

Aveline had dissolved into laughter and Hawke with her, and Fenris had been left shaking his head in both amusement and uncertainty. Hawke had always been so cautious with her sister's name, so careful to keep her memories close, and he had not understood, then, why she might treat something so cherished so lightly.

"Oh, Maker," Hawke had said, dabbing her eyes. "It feels so much better to laugh than cry!"

-.-

They run. Rooms flash by in bursts of blurring color; Fenris sees the same scarlet carpet, the same delicate chandeliers and white-stoned walls he has known from the first days of his memory, as unchanged by the last hour as they have ever been—but now, with Hawke's feet pounding beside his, with her breathless, euphoric chuckles low in his ears, they are wholly different. He is wholly different.

They skid around a corner at full speed and nearly knock over two slaves with their arms full of freshly-pressed linens. "Sorry!" Hawke calls out gaily, an unfamiliar echo in these joyless halls; one of the slaves drops her armload with a shriek and the linen pours out like a cloud at their feet, but they do not slow and Fenris grins despite himself. He knows they may be rushing to their deaths—Danarius has bested them once before, after all—but at least he faces that death with Hawke, who remembers him, who loves him, and he thinks that if she asked now he could hand her the head of the Archon himself.

They hesitate only an instant by the study door to be certain Danarius is not still inside, and then they slip into the dim, empty room. "I saw your armor in the desk," Hawke says, already moving towards it. "Or at least the gauntlets were—yes, here!" She tosses him one and immediately apologizes when the sharpened steel almost takes off an ear; Fenris tugs the other from her grasp with a pronounced frown and within moments, his hands are safely encased in the familiar gleaming claws. His breastplate they find jammed between two bookcases as if Danarius had simply wanted it out of the way, and soon enough Fenris is tightening the bloodstained straps around his chest with a gratification he cannot quite hide.

"It's dented." Hawke fingers the scarred grooves scouring over his heart, left by the blunted head of a mace so long ago in The Hanged Man that it might as well have been another lifetime.

Fenris catches her hand in his, careful now not to scratch her, and pulls it away. "It is not beyond repair."

"If you say so," she says, leaning up for a quick kiss, and then they move to leave the study—"Oh, wait, wait!" Hawke spins on her heel and bends over the enormous desk, sending the intricate wire lamp right off the edge with a thump and knocking over most of the letters and packages she'd stacked there so carefully just hours ago, and when she straightens she holds aloft the bowl of salted, honeyed almonds like a trophy. "Yes, still here! —Don't give me that look, Fenris."

"I am not giving you a look."

"You are, you wet blanket," she says even as she grabs a handful of the nuts and eats them with pointed pleasure. "I wanted to try these so badly this afternoon and I never had a chance while he was stuffing his face, and I am not letting this golden opportunity pass me by—"

"Let's go, Hawke," Fenris says, tugging her wrist; she curls the bowl closer to her waist as she swallows, clearly intending to bring it with her, and puffs up with mock-offense at Fenris's derisive snort.

"Trying to separate a girl from her hard-earned reward," she grumbles without heat and follows him from the room, still selecting nuts from the bowl. As little as she means it, though, she does not let it rest; Hawke upbraids him under her breath all the way through the east wing, even when he stops them at the sight of two armed slaves around a corner.

"—stubborn elf and his spikes—what, Fenris?"

He bites back a laugh at the exasperation on her face. "Two guards," he murmurs. "Hold your tirade a moment."

She falls silent obediently, though she rolls her eyes, and Fenris tips his head around the corner just far enough to see the guards' backs.

Then he winces. "Hawke."

"I'm being quiet."

"You are—ah. Crunching."

She swallows with an ostentatious gulp. "They're nuts. They're crunchy. They're delicious."

He glances back at her over his shoulder. "Enough to jeopardize an already-dangerous escape?"

"You weren't the one who had to sit there and smell them," she grouses, but lets the last handful drop in an innocuous—and silent—heap at her feet, then kneels to set the bowl beside them. "We're coming back for these," she mutters and Fenris sighs, unable to muster any true irritation, and when the guards move on to the next rooms, they sprint together towards freedom, leaving the almonds behind.

They are mere steps from the double doors that lead to the central halls when Hawke's head jerks to the side as if at a sudden thought. "Wait, Fenris—I have an idea." He opens his mouth, but Hawke is already running down a side hallway, ducking into the narrow corridor that leads to the kitchens.

Fenris would have liked to reflect on the utter strangeness of Hawke knowing her way through Danarius's mansion so well—but he needs his faculties instead to dodge through the bewildered crowd of slaves still washing the dinner dishes, weaving between towering stacks of glassware and ivory to keep close to Hawke. More than one voice cries out at their appearance, not only in surprise but in warning, too; Fenris knows they do not look like slaves, himself armored and Hawke leading him unerringly, but their outrage means as much to him as their orders—he leaves behind their shouting and their fear, pausing only once when he catches a glimpse of an older elf across the way, a sturdy, middle-aged woman with kind eyes who watches him without fear—

"In here," Hawke says suddenly, yanking on his arm, and Fenris stumbles after her into the torchlit opulence of the dining room. The long mahogany table is just as he remembers from the disastrous banquet, gleaming and oiled and dominating the room even with its empty seats, but Hawke pays it little mind as she races to the stone fireplace at the far end. Fenris follows more slowly after her, not understanding her intent until she tugs one of the upholstered chairs out of its precise ranks and thrusts it against the fireplace as a stepping stool; she reaches up as Fenris steadies her legs and pulls down from above the mantle a greatsword used so long for decoration that Fenris had forgotten its existence.

"Oof, heavy—I remembered this from that dinner party," she says, nearly tumbling over the chair's arm at the unexpected weight of the sword. "It's not very sharp, but it's better than nothing, isn't it?"

Fenris lifts the pommel from her hand and wraps his fingers around it, feeling the leather-bound hilt settle in his grip. It has been so long since he has held a sword that the weight ought to feel unfamiliar—and yet, as he hefts the blade between them, his muscles take over where his mind falters, and Fenris cannot stop his smirk. "A Blade of Mercy," he explains as he takes a practice swing to one side. "Favors given to those who have serviced the Imperium." Hawke clambers down from the chair, careful to stay out of reach until he is satisfied and brings the sword level before her. "Danarius covets these swords," he adds, showing her the splinters of light fissuring down the blade, and her eyes reflect the golden fractures.

Hawke touches one of the cracks very lightly. "Mercy, hm?"

He gives her a hard smile. "I'll think of the irony as I wield it."

A door slams in the distance and they both jump; then, as if it had been a signal, they dart in one motion towards the arched double doors that lead out of the dining room. "At least that's your weapon taken care of," Hawke says, aiming a petty kick at the sideboard as they pass that makes the crystal decanters chime against each other.

Oh—the thought had not even occurred to Fenris, and as they hasten out of the dining room towards the main hall, he asks somewhat belatedly, "Will you need a—staff?" He knows where Danarius and Hadriana kept their less-powerful spares, though the thought of Hawke carrying something so steeped in blood magic makes him ill.

But Hawke is already shaking her head. "No need," she says. "I've got two months of magic stored up under my skin and if it's all the same to you, I'd really rather not borrow anything from Danarius's evil magic sticks—excuse us!" A startled slave in an open doorway yells something as they pass but they both ignore him; they have entered at last the wide hallway that leads to the atrium, and from there it is only a matter of time before they track down Danarius in whatever stronghold he has made for himself. Fenris knows they will not catch him unawares—the alarm has been raised, after all—but he would prefer to bring battle on his own terms if he is to have any terms at all—

They reach the end of the hallway and slow to a walk, and Fenris forces himself to put away the possibilities in favor of the present. The crimson carpeting is plush under his bare toes here, but the atrium just ahead of them is marble-floored and rife with echoes, and both he and Hawke drop their voices as she eases open the ornately carved door. "It's late. Do you think he'll be in his nightdress?"

Fenris blinks. "He'll—what?"

"Danarius," Hawke whispers, pulling open the door the rest of the way. "Empty—come on. I just meant it'd be appropriate: a disgraceful end for a disgraceful man. 'Magister slain, found in silk pajamas,' and sacred Andraste, who has a room just for whipping slaves, anyway?"

"You're babbling," Fenris says in an undertone, but he is smiling; he has forgotten this nervous habit of hers, and the sound of it is so surprisingly welcome that he cannot bring himself to caution her against it. His sword is heavy in his hand and comforting as they step out into the open expanse of the marbled atrium—

"Ah," says Danarius, his voice echoing in a towering wave, long and drawn-out and viciously satisfied.

Fenris and Hawke both spin on their heels, lifting their eyes to the balustrade above them where Danarius stands, both hands on the white railing. His staff is on his back and ready, as if he has expected this; his grey robes shimmer with magic as he sweeps out an arm in a magnanimous gesture that encompasses both of them.

"My dear pets," he says, oil-smoothed and sweet, "I see I should have leashed you both more closely."

"Not in his nightgown," Hawke mutters with tangible disappointment, though Fenris feels her edge a half-step closer to his back in tense anticipation. "Odds of him sweeping dramatically down the stairs?"

Fenris wants to laugh only for a moment, in a giddy, hysterical kind of way, when Danarius does indeed sweep towards the grand staircase with his long sleeves fluttering behind him. His boot-heels rap on each step like cracking stone, steady and implacable, and his eyes are cold as he pulls the staff from his back. "I warn you, my little Fenris," he says, a thin, humorless smile curling his lips, "that my magnanimity only extends so far. Test me again, and you may be certain that you—and your Champion—will live to regret it."

Hawke snorts, very softly, behind him. "Not the most persuasive offer I've ever heard. At least he's got panache."

The even steps falter only an instant, but it is enough that Fenris knows Danarius heard her speak, and the magister's eyes narrow to slits as he looks from Fenris to Hawke—and to Hawke's neck, bare and unchained. "Ah," he says again, though there is no veneer of civility to soften his tone this time, and he stops about ten steps up from the floor of the atrium, dropping his staff to the marble beside him with an echoing tack. "How…industrious you have been in my absence."

His voice is laced with the barest hint of insinuation, but even that is enough to make Fenris stiffen; his knuckles are white around the haft of his stolen sword at his side, his chest aching at the twinned pressures of both fury and fear—the same fear that closes his throat like a vising hand here in the presence of his master. It does not matter that he had lived ten years in freedom before the disastrous meeting with his sister or that Hawke stands behind him still; he can only think of the last two months of abject slavery, the utter subjugation that Danarius has thrust upon him not once, here, but twice. Hawke has only just returned to him—he thinks that if he were to lose her again now it would be the breaking blow on his mind already made brittle, a dry branch bent too far in the storm to survive.

And then Hawke steps forward beside him, and she speaks where he cannot. "Fenris is not your slave," she says, direct and clear, "and neither am I." The words ring like a bell in the arched ceilings of the atrium and Fenris feels the band of terror around his throat loosen enough to swallow—Hawke says it, and it is true. She spreads her hands in front of her as if speaking to a child who does not understand. "It's finished, Danarius."

"Is it?" Danarius answers her, his gaze pinning her in place. "You claim victory so easily, Champion, for a woman with such a…delicate spirit. Or need I remind you we have had this conversation once before?"

She shrugs one shoulder in careless unconcern. "Victory's easy to claim when you know what defeat brings. We've survived that, and we'll survive this, too. You are going to die here, Danarius, posturing or no."

Danarius tuts. "You misplace your resentment. You forget it was not I who gave you those scars you bear, nor I who threw you without caution to the mouth of the lion."

"No," Hawke agrees, and Fenris feels his heart lurch before she continues. "You were just the one with the knife to his throat."

Danarius shakes his head, gently disapproving. "Your generosity is astonishing, Champion, both in your forgiveness and your assumption of my authority. Fenris is capable of autonomy, you know, and not every pain he has given you has been at my direction." He gives her the same thin smile, proffering one hand in open bargain. "Lay down your arms, and I will demonstrate my own generosity in return."

Fenris still cannot speak. He does not even have the luxury of motion—his arms are tense enough that the tip of his sword wavers near his feet, his back rigid to the point of cramping. He is a ghost to their solidity, locked in place by fright like a cornered hare, terrified beyond coherent thought of losing Hawke, of losing himself, of the stark and unrelenting dread that Hawke might even now reach up her hand and seal his fate—

"Oh, please," Hawke snaps, and Danarius retracts his hand as if bitten by her scorn. "How transparent can you possibly—I honestly thought you were better than that, Danarius. No imagination—and what's the threat if we don't? Let me guess: torture us both until we scream? Again?"

"Nothing so pleasant, my dear girl," Danarius says with tight control. The bottom of his staff scrapes along the stone step.

Hawke's smile is sharp enough to cut. "Then you'll forgive us for not acquiescing, darling."

Fenris snorts. He cannot help it, even though he tries—of all the mistimed levity he has heard from Hawke over the years he can remember none more inappropriate, and yet he laughs—and the fear falls clean away from him like the weight of an unclasped cloak. Danarius's face is purpling with apoplectic fury; he raises his staff crosswise in front of him and Hawke takes a half-step backwards, her own magic simmering around her fingers—Fenris falls into a crouch of his own, his muscles tensed now not with fear but with the driving anticipation of battle.

"Fenris," says Danarius through the glowing sheen of magic, his eyes lit from below like some unearthly fiend out of the Void. "Come to me."

Fenris lifts the sword between them.

"Blade first," he says eloquently, and it begins.

-.-

The battle is at once nothing and everything that Fenris expects. It is the same enemy, the same man standing above them in cold contempt as if they are little more than an unwelcome interruption to his evening—and yet it is so different, too. There are no slavers here to help his master, no ambush laid in wait by a sister more concerned with her advancement than her family, no faceless hireling to stand in his way as he surges forward as fast as Hawke's lightning to slay the man who stole her freedom—

Until Danarius brings a tiny, expensive blade across his own wrist. The blood slides over his skin in scarlet rivulets, trailing down the long, streaming sleeves of his robes and Fenris curses even as he speeds up, even as the magic builds thick and rancid in the air around him—twenty paces—ten paces—six paces and still too far away—

And the ground erupts around him.

A half-dozen corpses burst through the marble floor as if it were sand, the stone crumbling to bits under their rotting hands as they pull themselves, literally, from the Void. Fenris curses again and skips back a few steps, careful to keep himself between the dead and Hawke; he glances over his shoulder and she gives him a sharp nod before turning to Danarius on the stairs, fire blazing around her hands like a promise. Fine, then—he will leave the magister to her, for the moment, and spares only a single moment of gratitude that Danarius did not think to bring blood-slaves to this fight. Then the first shambling corpse reaches him, moving more quickly than legs without muscles have a right to, and after that, Fenris thinks of nothing of all.

The first corpse goes down in a single stroke, bones scattering to both sides like hollow chimes that resound around them longer than they should. The second and third reach him at the same time, but even as Fenris sweeps his blade across their ribs a brilliant torrent of flame sears by him close enough to heat the metal hilt in his hand; his gaze follows the streak of fire long enough to see Danarius throw up his staff in a glittering arc of defense, and then the second skeleton he'd struck drags a rusted longsword from a rotted leather sheath. It jabs at him once and then again, too clumsy for Fenris to be in any real danger, and when he ducks under a wild swing it lodges its sword in its fellow's exposed ribcage.

In another battle, it would have been amusing; here Fenris wastes no time. As the first tugs fruitlessly at its trapped blade, Fenris brings the hilt of his sword up hard at the base of its neck; its spine comes apart under the force of the blow and the corpse crumples at his feet. The other, though, is less inept—it does not bother with the sword in its ribs, ignoring the protruding hilt to raise a second sword of its own, and when Fenris lunges away from its downswinging blade a bolt of white lightning crackles through the air where he'd just been standing. Electricity races through his lyrium and he bites back a cry of pain, barely lifting his arm in time to block the subsequent strike from the impassive corpse.

"Danarius!" Hawke shouts, livid, and an icy blast of wind whips by him towards the stairs—but Fenris cannot afford to see if the blow lands because all at once, armed and armored and grinning, the remaining four skeletons are upon him.

The world becomes bones and a whirling blade. His body might remember his skill, but no warrior may go two months without practice and not suffer, and even Fenris cannot endure forever with will alone. One corpse lands a glancing slice on his arm above his gauntlet, stinging but shallow, and though Fenris is quick enough with a finishing blow before it can ready another it is still not fast enough to keep the other three wholly at bay. They catch him between breaths with strikes that stagger him, opening long wounds on his shoulders, his side, deep in his back where he is undefended; his lungs scream for respite and his arms shake under the sheer weight of the sword, taxed beyond their strength with his exertion, and yet he does not stop, does not falter in the flickering light of magic bursting overhead.

Hawke still fights. So will he.

He takes down another corpse as Hawke flings raw fire towards the magister on the stairs; it lights up the room in gold and heat and Fenris spins on his heel, trusting her to keep Danarius's wrath in check behind him. Two more, only two—the taller one lurches towards him with its notched, rusted sword flying down towards his neck and Fenris counters with a long up-slicing stroke of his own. The blades meet in midair with a ringing clang that jars his arms down to his shoulders, sliding along each other with a metallic shriek to send off fiery sparks; the grinning corpse bears down harder above him and for a moment he thinks he will give out under the weight after all—

A fist made of earth and stone barrels through the skeleton's body, leaving its skull hanging suspended in the air for half a heartbeat before it—and its sword—fall at his feet.

"Sorry!" Hawke shouts, and Fenris can hear the mad laughter in her voice as he straightens. "I was aiming for Danar—ack—"

He turns just in time to see Hawke careen backwards, losing control of a bolt of lightning that leaps toward the ceiling as she tries to dodge the whistling daggers of the last corpse. One of the blades catches her tunic at the throat and drags down towards her sleeve and Fenris's heart stops even as he races towards her—Hawke swivels on one foot and puts a hand to her forehead and an instant later, the skeleton is blown backwards as if kicked by a horse—

Right into Fenris's chest.

Its decaying head rolls sideways on Fenris's shoulder, staring up at him with its fixed grin; Fenris permits himself a feral smile of his own, and then he hooks two fingers into its empty, fanatic eye sockets, and in one swift motion he tears the skull away from its spine.

The corpse collapses with a smell like rotted fruit. Fenris pays it no mind; he is already at Hawke's side, one hand coming up to touch the thin line of blood beading along the dagger's path from her throat to her shoulder, the white linen of her tunic falling away to reveal the shiny, waxy expanse of a carelessly-healed scar. Her black hair hangs loose and disheveled around her face, barely covering an already-bruising cheek as she looks up to meet him; Danarius's spells have left other injuries, too—burns and tiny cuts left from shattered ice darting over her skin like angry wasps—but all Fenris can see is the blood on her chest, the new opening of the wound that had begun her suffering in the first place.

"I'm fine—I'm fine," she says breathlessly, pulling his hand away from her heart. "It's not over yet."

Fenris looks, then, towards the shimmering globe of magic that hides Danarius on the stairs. The magister's face is barely visible through the iridescence, but even from here Fenris can see his wide eyes, his fists clenched furiously around his staff, the quivering of his beard as he mouths soundless invectives at them from behind his shield.

Danarius is afraid.

Fenris raises his head, and he says, "It is."

He takes one step, and then another, and then he is running full-tilt across the scorched, pockmarked marble floor of the atrium, his steps pounding and resounding in the high white ceilings with all the inevitability of a thunderhead opening into the storm. Danarius sees him coming and the magister flinches—and even as Fenris reaches the first step the shield flickers and collapses. Go, go—he leaps the steps three at a time but though Danarius stinks of fear he does not surrender; his staff snaps up in a brilliant arc of white light and lightning pours out like a river—Fenris throws himself to one side of the bolt and even though sparks leap the distance and zip under his skin like pinpricking needles through the lyrium he does not slow, does not hesitate because Danarius is here, here and fearing him—

Fire blossoms around them both. Fenris throws up an arm and Danarius screams, a high thin wordless sound, but there is no heat to burn him—his head whips around and there is Hawke at the base of the stairs with her flame-licked arms thrust into the air, bending all of her strength against the man who collared them both, who stole from Fenris the only sanctuary he had ever known; his heart leaps in his chest and he lifts his sword even as Danarius raises one white broken hand in empty pleading through the blaze curling around his long silver sleeves—

He begs, "Fenris—!"

And Fenris brings his blade down on the charred haft of his staff to snap it clean in two.

Danarius stares dumbfounded at the splintered edges only for an instant before Fenris reverses his sword and slams the hilt into Danarius's forehead hard enough to crack his skull. He goes down like a toppled tree and the fire around them disperses in the rush of wind, but Fenris is not finished—he drops the sword with a clang to curl a fist into the collar of Danarius's robes, lifting him bodily to eye level. The man's eyes roll in his head, dazed by pain and shock and Fenris feels his lip curl at the sight of it—this is who he has feared for ten years? This wrinkled, frightened man covered in soot and bruises and his own blood?—and he thrusts the magister away from him into open air. Danarius goes skidding down the stairs and crumples at the bottom in an ignominious heap, his robes fluttering around him for a moment until they settle at Hawke's feet.

Fenris follows him down, each step as implacable as Danarius's had been, and when he reaches the feebly writhing man he reaches down and fists his gauntleted fingers into Danarius's hair, dragging his head up until he faces Hawke. The other hand he phases just so, his lyrium flaring with rippling light, and very, very gently, he wraps his hand around Danarius's heart. It beats like a bird's wing against his palm.

"Thank your master," says Fenris.

Danarius licks his lips, his fingers scrabbling for purchase against the smooth and polished marble under him. Hawke stares down at him impassively, one hand at her throat where the skin is blistered, the other relaxed at her side. His head twists in Fenris's grasp as if seeking escape, but there is no escape for him, here, and no mercy—he swallows when Fenris's grip tightens, and then he opens his mouth and looks to Hawke, and he says, "Thank you."

And then Fenris tears his heart out of his chest.

It beats twice in his hand, as if even now the man refuses to relinquish his power—Fenris squeezes, pitiless, and it bursts under his steel-tipped fingers with a spray of blood. He drops the mangled thing on the wide-eyed, unmoving body at his feet, and the realization settles around him, clear and cold, like the first shaft of a star breaking through a clouded night.

Danarius is dead.

Fenris blinks, and the wave crashes in around him. Danarius is dead—his master—no, not his master, nothing more than a corpse—but he is gone—he has killed him with his own two hands, and Fenris looks from the sticky, drying blood on the beaten silver of his gauntlets to Hawke's unsmiling face as if she might be able to explain. "He's dead," he says helplessly.

"I know," Hawke says, reaching out a hand to pull him away from the body.

Fenris looks at her blankly, taking it without understanding.

"I killed him," he explains as she draws him towards herself, her pale hand wrapped in the bloodied metal mess of his own. He can't seem to catch his breath. The painted walls seem very white and very far away.

"I know," Hawke says again, and then her fingers are on his cheeks, holding his jaw in place, her eyes burning into his. "Fenris—stay with me, Fenris."

"I—" he draws in a long, jagged breath, letting his eyes fall shut at the weight of it. Hawke's thumbs stroke across his skin to ground him, anchoring him to himself, and he clenches his hands at his sides as the world settles back into place. "I am here," he says, more solidly, and he opens his eyes.

Hawke looks up at him, and even as he watches her gaze shifts from concern to something softer. She opens her mouth as if to speak, but no words come—he does not know if there are words for the enormity of this thing they have done, that he has done—and instead, her arms slide over his shoulders and she pulls him into an embrace. He stiffens at first—he is covered in another man's blood and not fit to be touched—but she neither relents nor loosens her grip, and soon enough he sags into her, all of his tension relaxing at once in a breath that is nearly painful in its release. Fenris buries his face in her hair, struggling to order his thoughts, to make sense of this senseless brutality; her fingers brush through the hair at the nape of his neck in long, soothing strokes, willing to be patient, to be silent in this silent hall made more a mausoleum than a home.

He does not know how long they stand there in the center of the ruined atrium. Long enough that the blood dries on his gauntlets, long enough that his back begins to ache as the rush of battle fades to nothing, washing away his hatred and his rage and his last lingering fears with it. Long enough that his own arms curl around Hawke in return, holding her more closely against him in both reassurance and comfort until his trembling hands grow steady on the scarred lines of her back.

"Hawke," he says into her hair, both a plea and a promise, and he feels her smile against his neck.

"It's all right, Fenris," she says. "I know it hurts, but—it's all right."

He draws back then, feeling almost whole for the first time in two months, and brushes her sweat-sticky hair out of her eyes. "So wise," he murmurs, and her eyes crinkle with amusement, but before she can speak, a woman screams across the room.

They jerk apart, Hawke's hands bursting into flame as his lyrium burns white—but it is a slave and not a threat, a young elf with her hands over her mouth, appalled and terrified by the sight of her master lying dead at the bottom of a staircase, surrounded by scorch marks and rubble and a half-dozen corpses in various states of integrity.

"This might be a problem," Hawke mutters, letting the fire die out between her fingers, and Fenris cannot help but agree. In the distance they can hear more shouting, more feet hurrying to the atrium, and before they can be cornered by elves more frightened of the Imperium's repercussions than a beaten pair of rebellious slaves, Fenris darts forward and grasps the hilt of his sword, sheathing it on his back as he turns again to Hawke, and one last time, they run.

-.-

"So what's the plan?" Hawke gasps as they dart through a doorway. "I mean, besides 'set the whole place on fire and escape in the burning rubble'."

"We are not far from the docks," Fenris says, holding Hawke back as a pair of armed slaves hurry by at the end of the hall. "Isabela has a ship—"

Hawke's hand tightens so suddenly on his arm that it hurts. "She's alive?"

Her eyes are wide and shining and painful with hope. Fenris swallows down his sudden worry that Varania might have been mistaken. "I believe so," he says instead. "I saw a letter to Danarius—her ship followed us from Kirkwall. They may already be here, in the city."

"And Varric?"

"I—am not sure."

She rocks back on her heels, biting her lip. "Okay. All right—oh, wait a moment, a little more came back—" Her fingers brush over his blood-soaked jerkin where one of the skeletons had caught him with a deep gouge under his ribs, and the faint wash of healing magic curls around the wound. She is not strong enough to heal it fully—the fight with Danarius has left them both drained dry—but she has done what she can for them both as they make their way through the mansion, working on the worst injuries when her magic has returned enough to allow it. Fenris still keeps one hand clamped to his side and Hawke has a pronounced limp, but he is relatively certain that neither of them will die of blood loss before one of the slaves chasing them slips a blade between their ribs.

"Clear," says Fenris when the hallway empties, and they move again. The atrium is not far from the front doors of the estate, but the household has rightly guessed their chosen avenue of escape, and neither Fenris nor Hawke wishes to fight again if they can avoid it. It is not that they fear harm—even like this, they are more than a match for frightened elves with kitchen knives—but Fenris has no wish to jeopardize innocent lives for simply being bought by the wrong magister, so instead they wait and they hide and they run.

Luck is with them, though, and Hawke pulls open the doors to the entrance hall without their once being noticed. They slip inside and close the doors behind them, and when Hawke laughs at the sight of the night sky pouring in through the windows above the main doors, Fenris does not try to keep back his smile.

"Do you know," Hawke says, spinning around to walk backwards in front of him, her arms spreading grandly to her sides, "what this is?"

Fenris smirks at her infectious glee. "Tell me, Hawke."

"This, my dear elf, is freedom."

"A window and sky, human? I can think of one better." His voice drops as he approaches and Hawke's steps slow, a soft smile curving her mouth as Fenris lifts his hand—

"Wait!"

The whisper hisses between them like a snake and Fenris turns with a snarl, his fingers going to the hilt of his sword—but instead of an armed slave he sees the elf who had cared for Hawke, the middle-aged woman with a kind face and gentler hands than his, and he lowers his arm without drawing his sword.

"Wait," she repeats, stepping closer. She seems—bewildered, and lost, and she stops halfway across the foyer as if she does not know where to go. "You—you killed the master."

"Yes," says Fenris.

She spreads her empty hands in front of her, helpless. "What are we supposed to do now?"

"Whatever you wish," he says, turning away. He had not expected gratitude; he had hoped at least for independent thought. "Do what you will."

"What I will—"

"Oh!" Hawke's voice is low and startled. "You're the one—you helped me after Danarius sent me upstairs. After the whipping."

"What?" asks the woman distractedly, but Hawke has already crossed the room to take both her hands in her own.

"I didn't thank you, then," says Hawke. "So let me say it now—thank you for helping me. And for helping Fenris."

"Fenris?" She blinks and her eyes pull into focus on Hawke's face, and when recognition dawns her gaze sweeps to Fenris still standing silently by the door. "Oh," she says, surprised, and then more kindly, "oh.Your Champion returned to you, then." He gives a short nod, and she looks back to Hawke. "I'm glad, child. Truly."

Hawke smiles—but there is a clamor of raised and angry voices just outside the door, and she pulls away with regret. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry. We have to go. Please, be careful."

The woman nods, her back straightening, and Fenris does not know if it is the sudden strength in her face or the unhappiness in Hawke's, but he says, "There is a package from Danarius's banker in his study. If you move quickly, you might be able to purchase freedom for those left here before his death is realized."

The woman and Hawke both stare. Fenris shrugs one shoulder, uncomfortable with their scrutiny—but then a fist pounds hard on the door behind them and they all jump. "Hawke," he says with new urgency; she moves back towards him and with one last glance at the woman standing tall in the center of the foyer, she throws open the front doors.

The night air curls around them like a lover, beckoning them forward to open roads and freedom. Hawke steps out first and the moonlight catches on her hair; Fenris watches her for a moment, her steps light and giddy even with her limp, and then he looks back over his shoulder, into the house that has tormented him for all his living memory, separated from him only by a middle-aged elven slave. "Your name."

The woman smiles, and says, "Mari."

"Thank you," Fenris says, and closes the doors behind him.

Hawke is already halfway down the stone steps by the time Fenris catches up with her. They are still not safe—far from it, trapped as they are in a city of blood mages and open hostility—and yet Danarius is dead and he is freer than he has ever been in his life, and when they reach the bottom of the stairs Fenris pulls Hawke into a kiss. It is not long and not half as thorough as he would wish, considering the perils of their current position, but he thinks Hawke understands all the same, and when they break apart they run wordlessly down the long path leading away from the house, following its bends and twists around the well-trimmed trees until they disappear into the dark.

And then Hawke is knocked clean off her feet by a very solid shadow.

"Hawke!" Fenris snaps, his lyrium pulsing light—but before he can strike the shadow resolves itself into a very familiar shape.

"Oof, Merrill—Merrill?"

"Oh, lethallan!" cries Merrill, both arms wrapped around Hawke's neck. "I can't believe you're all right—Creators, I've been so worried—was it very bad? Oh, I wish we'd come sooner but we had to wait until Varric was all right—"

"Varric's alive?" says Hawke eagerly, and more shadows detach themselves from the trees around them.

They're all here.

They're all here—Fenris sees Aveline and Anders hurrying towards Hawke, both of them red-eyed and smiling as Merrill helps her up; Hawke is already crying and reaching for both of them, pulling them into a hug so fierce that Aveline is nearly knocked off her feet. Varric himself is a vision of gleeful satisfaction as he emerges from the trees, Bianca gleaming smugly in the starlight, and the only remnant left of that catastrophic battle in The Hanged Man is a small curving scar that disappears into his hairline. "Elf," he says, grinning, and Fenris clasps hands with more gratitude than he can express.

"Dwarf," he says, swallowing around the lump in his throat—and then suddenly, he is being bent backwards by someone with exceptionally strong arms and kissed. It is, in fact, a very methodical, meticulous kiss, and even before he tastes salt and the sea he knows who it is—which is, perhaps, the only reason he manages to suppress his initial, more violent impulse.

Isabela sets him on his feet again. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes," she says, grinning, and flicks her thumb over her bottom lip.

"Isabela," he says, his voice dry as he holds her firmly at arm's length. "I am glad to see you as well."

"Not glad enough, pet." She winks and pulls away, and before he can even think of moving she has taken two steps and dipped Hawke back in the same intent, systematic kiss she'd given him. Hawke, when she is straightened at last, looks torn between laughter and a stunned sort of amazement, and when she meets his eyes over Isabela's shoulder they both shrug. "Did you miss me?" Isabela asks, smoothing Hawke's hair away from her forehead.

"Every day," Hawke says shakily, and Isabela laughs as she hugs her.

Aveline approaches him, then, and though her embrace is harder than Isabela's it is no less welcome. "It's good to see you, Fenris," she says, the barest hint of emotion coloring her voice. "I was afraid we were going to be too late."

"My fault," Varric says then, tapping his temple. "Blondie did his best, but it takes an exceptional show of force to crack a dwarven skull. Bianca was positively traumatized. Next time I'll duck faster."

Fenris shrugs. "There will not be a next time."

"Dead, then?" Aveline asks, one hand resting on the hilt at her hip.

Fenris thinks of Danarius's heart, red and pulsing in his hand, and the humorless smile he gives makes Aveline shake her head. "With certainty."

"And thank the Maker for that," Hawke grumbles, joining them with the others trailing behind her. Anders's hands are already lit with the blue glow of healing magic, and Fenris watches as the myriad cuts slicing through her skin close over, her pale cheeks flushing with color and her weight shifting again to her injured leg. Even the angry blisters on her neck shrink and vanish, though Fenris knows the shiny, scarred band left around her throat will never fully disappear.

"Thank you," Hawke says when Anders is finished, touching his sleeve; his answering smile is too warm, but Fenris only nods when Anders glances his way. He is still too glad they have come, too grateful that Anders can ease any part of Hawke's pain to begrudge him one of her smiles now, and Anders dips his head in response.

"Oh, you're hurt, Fenris," Merrill says from somewhere around his waist. Fenris twitches away as she straightens. "Was it very bad?"

"No," he says, even as Hawke answers, "Yes."

Isabela laughs and Aveline rolls her eyes, and a moment later Anders's magic is twining through his lyrium, closing up just enough of his remaining wounds and bruises to make traveling comfortable. He nods again and Anders laughs with only a hint of bitterness.

"Welcome to Tevinter, I suppose," he says, shaking his head, and Isabela throws her arm around his shoulders.

"Don't fret. At least you got to see my ship."

"Sick the whole way," Varric mutters in an aside to Fenris, then shrugs as Hawke leans down to hug him too, though Fenris sees his eyes soften at the embrace. "Come on, Hawke," he says at last with a suspiciously gruff voice as she lets him go. "You've stolen our thunder for the dramatic rescue; at least let us give you a ride home in style."

"With pleasure," she says, and smiles—and then her eyes widen and she whirls on Fenris. "I forgot them!"

"What?"

"The almonds!"

She sounds truly dismayed and Fenris cannot help himself—he laughs hard enough that his chest aches, loud enough that a roosting owlet bolts out of its nearby nest, hooting in protest as it wings away. Merrill lets out a startled noise that sounds like a bird herself and he hears Hawke shooing the others away down the path; he doubles over, one hand covering his face, and when Hawke's fingers fall cool and soft on the back of his neck he does not know if he is laughing or crying.

"Fenris," she says, her voice quiet, and his hitching breaths slow. The tips of his gauntleted fingers dig into his skin, scraping across the lyrium hard enough to make them hum and sing with prickling light, and then Hawke reaches down and cups his face in her palms, pulling him up to meet her even though it hurts to straighten a back that has been so long bent.

"Fenris," she says again, her eyes searching his, and then she leans up and presses her lips to his so tenderly that he thinks he might break into a thousand pieces. Her hands slide to his neck and her mouth brushes along his cheekbone, and then she whispers in his ear, "I loveyou," and Fenris feels the wild leaping thing in his chest catch on those words; he curls around them like a secret to be kept and treasured and never lost again, and when Hawke drops her forehead to rest on his chest he stares blindly over her head at the mansion that rises proud and silent in the distance, stone and still and empty now of master and memories alike. A breeze picks up as the lightening sky tinges grey, and Fenris turns his face into it until he can breathe again.

Dawn is coming.

Hawke draws back, then, and takes one step towards the others still waiting for them in the trees. She is not smiling, but the joy he can see in her eyes is too great a thing for laughter as she waits for him to follow. He does not move, at first, caught between moments, between the pain-dark pull of the place behind him and the lighter peace she offers, and then she extends her hand back to him and the rising sun breaks over them both like watered gold.

It is as if the long night has never happened, as if Danarius has never lived and Hawke has never forgotten him and there has never been a moment in his life other than this one, here, when he reaches out and covers Hawke's hand with his own. Her fingers curl around his, sliding between the metal of his claws and the lines of lyrium as if they were meant always to be there, and when he breathes again he turns away at last from the silent marble mansion on the hill behind him without looking back, without giving another moment to the shadows of his past when there is something so bright still ahead of him.

Once, she had pointed out to him a window and sky—but this is freedom. Hawke looks at him in the light, and she smiles.

Fenris steps forward.

-.-

end

-.-