"I need your help, Fenris."

Though not impossible, there was a pause after those words, a pause in which Fenris had to take a moment to process what had just been spoken. After two years acquainted, the elf had difficulty picturing any situation where Shyra Hawke required help desperately enough to actually ask for it.

"What is it?" he questioned, his expression serious. Hawke had asked him to meet her in the Hanged Man just the day before, during a time when their companions were notably absent from the establishment. Yet she did not appear to need discretion; it was the middle of the day and she arrived in her usual gear (which was hardly inconspicuous), taking no time to check for followers or eavesdroppers. Not that Hawke was known for her prudence.

"Well…" Hawke trailed off, pursing her pale pink lips as she searched for the words. Her dark blue eyes clouded with concern and a touch of something Fenris couldn't read. It was enough to make him lean forward in his seat, the drink he had ordered untouched and forgotten on the table that stood between them. "There's a boy," she finally began, "a boy from the alienage. I see him occasionally when I visit Merrill." She took a second then to look at Fenris, gauging his expression, and was rewarded with an utterly confused and somewhat judgmental stare. Before he could formulate anymore assumptions, she rushed to continue, "Oh, stop it. That is not where this is going. He's a child, no older than 13."

"Is he in some sort of danger?" Fenris asked uncertainly. He was still completely in the dark as to where he came into the equation.

Hawke shook her head. "No, no. Not of the physical sort, at least. But until recently, he was a victim of blood mages." Fenris felt his jaw clench automatically, his gaze narrowing into slits. Even children weren't safe from those creatures.

"He is a victim still, no doubt," Fenris muttered quietly, more venom in his words than he had perhaps intended. But magic did not relent its grip as easily as Hawke acted it did.

"Yes," Hawke agreed, her voice characteristically empathetic. Fenris had noticed in the last two years Hawke's unusual kindness towards children, kindness she normally only reserved for the people who had earned her trust in the bloodiest of ways, but he wasn't sure if such empathy was directed this time at the child or at himself. "They toyed with his mind before the Templars found them. They were executed of course, but the boy lives in a world no one seems to understand. He won't so much as give his name to people for fear they will somehow use it against him. And I want you to help with that."

Fenris had been wondering for some time where this was going, but now he merely assumed it was a joke. Him, help a psychologically disturbed child? He solved his own problems with blood and drink, barely. The elf didn't bother to voice this, knowing full well everything was clearly written on his face.

"Think about it. You two are a lot alike," she explained. "Both of you were hurt by magic. Both of you are afraid of being found by it again. Seeing someone strong like you in a similar situation to his might help him."

Fenris didn't like this. His 'situation', as she called it, was his entire life. It was just as painful to relive as it was private to discuss, and the thought of him being an example to anybody made him uncomfortable.

"When did you start crusading for elven children?" Fenris countered, though it was half-hearted. Hawke was busy enough as it was without getting involved in every sad story in Low Town, but that usually didn't stop her.

"You'll understand when you meet him. I'm not asking you to perform a miracle. Just speak with him once, then you can decide for yourself. Will you at least give it a try?"

Hawke turned the full power of her eyes on him then, the sort of gaze that saw right through him and made anyone who received it fall under her influence. Fenris knew he had lost, and begrudgingly muttered, "I'll go tomorrow." Hawke's triumphant smirk forced him to add, "But I make no promises beyond that." She waved him off and ordered another drink.

Tomorrow came faster than Fenris would have liked. It was only fear of retribution that compelled his arduous walk into Low Town that next morning. Not that Hawke would even be there to see he made good on his promise, as she was tending to business outside Kirkwall. As a result, it was Merrill who greeted him at the entrance of the alienage, obviously also roped into assistance by their persuasive companion. Her usual twitchy smile attempted to be welcoming, but Fenris' foul mood was having none of the magic-user's pleasantries.

"Where's the boy?" he asked over Merrill's heavily accented 'good morning.' Her smile faded, replaced by typical lines of worry.

"Over by the Tree," she revealed, pointing at the sacred Vhenadahl. "Be kind to him, Fenris, as best you can." It was clear by her tone she had no more comprehension of Hawke's request, or faith in Fenris, than he did himself. Fenris nodded briskly before heading towards the tree without delay. The quicker he got through this, the quicker he could get away.

On the opposite side of the trunk from the entrance, a crouched figure sat facing the tree. His hair was golden-blonde and his skin unusually pale. Even bent down it was clear he was small: thin, but not entirely frail. The boy didn't seem to notice Fenris as he came around the tree, intent on whatever it was he was doing. Which looked quite a bit like absolutely nothing to Fenris. He was just sitting there, staring straight ahead as if in a staring contest with the trunk. Awkwardly and without much of a plan, Fenris sat down next to the boy.

"Hello," he greeted, receiving no hint the boy even knew he was there. "My name is Fenris. Hawke asked me to speak with you." He had debated on whether revealing this information was counterproductive, but it was either that or seem like a completely random stranger.

"Hello yourself," the boy replied, monotone. His voice was less childlike than Fenris had expected, which led him to believe that Hawke hadn't overestimated his age like Fenris had originally thought. He didn't seem remotely surprised or suspicious that Fenris was suddenly speaking to him, and no adult came rushing over to question Fenris' motives. The older elf wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. "Fenris," the boy suddenly added, as if testing out the name.

"Yes," he confirmed uncomfortably, like it was a question being asked. There was a pause in which neither of them said a word, and Fenris again wondered why he had agreed to this. He had no idea how to speak with children, let alone the troubled sort as this one apparently was. The awkward silence stretched on, until Fenris, desperate to shake this impending feeling of failure, attempted to grasp at straws by asking, "What are you doing over here?"

"Vhenadahl is telling a story," the boy explained. "No one noticed but me."

Fenris frowned. "What is Vhenadahl saying?" he questioned. Sometimes hearing voices was a sign of demonic possession. Hawke hadn't told him if this boy had magic, but it was possible, especially if he had been targeted by blood mages.

"It depends," the smaller elf replied. "It tells me about the days it started failing, when People started to forget. But it would tell you something different, wouldn't it? Look." The boy turned his head to look at Fenris then, and for the first time, Fenris saw his face.

His eyes were made of lyrium. Despite the irrationality of it, that was Fenris' first impression. He noticed the fresh scar along the boy's cheek, a product of a ring most likely, and the hollowed look of someone underfed, but the details barely registered. The boy's eyes consumed his face with their large size, and the color was a blue Fenris had never seen on a person before, almost unnatural. The hue itself was a light turquoise, just on the edge of being considered pale. But they had a brightness to them that made them look as if they glowed. As if an entire city filled with light existed behind them. Fenris found he could only hold the boy's gaze for but a moment before he had to look away. Such young eyes holding such intensity was unsettling.

"Look at it," the boy directed, pulling Fenris back into their failing conversation. After a pause, Fenris did as he was told, if only to escape looking at the boy's gaze again. "What does it tell you?"

"I don't hear-" Fenris started immediately, but suddenly stopped himself as something dawned on him. Why, if he was meant to hear something, did the boy insist that he look? Deciding to give it a try, Fenris turned his eyes on the bark of the tree and attempted to unlock its secrets. The age of it was apparent in the lines and patterns that stretched far above their heads. Shadows flickered slightly from the sun, filtered by the branches. It was healthy, exuberating life despite its surroundings. Fenris wasn't sure he'd ever looked at any tree so closely.

"It… has seen quite a bit of suffering in its time," Fenris started slowly, filled with unsure hesitancy. Despite having a mere child as his audience, he still felt a little foolish. "But, it continues to live on. I suppose." Not exactly one of Varric's epic tales, but it was the best he could do.

The boy nodded thoughtfully. "It does, doesn't it? Why do you think it does that?" He tilted his head slightly as he looked up at Fenris with the question in his gaze even more so than on his lips.

"As opposed to what alternative? Death?" Fenris asked, glancing over at the boy with a frown.

"But it's stuck here. It can't ever do anything but see sad things. Would you want to keep growing if you knew you were trapped forever?" The boy's expression had turned troubled, as if the tree's plight were real. Fenris had the distinct impression they weren't really talking about Vhenadahl anymore, and he wasn't sure how to answer. The question sparked something in him that was too close for comfort.

"It's possible it won't always be so," the older elf answered after a moment. "Perhaps it continues to live because it hopes to see happier times. It wouldn't be trapped then."

The boy frowned for a moment, his lyrium eyes studying the tree as if he had missed something. Finally, he sighed and said, "It won't tell me that."

"One day it will." Fenris wasn't sure where all these reassuring words were coming from. Until Denarius was dead, he wouldn't feel any freer than that tree. But he had had the hope to escape, at least. It seemed whatever plagued this boy did so thoroughly, giving him little room to expect any relief. It was an all too familiar sentiment to Fenris; he spent most of his life feeling that way.

Deep in thought, the boy did not seem inclined to say anything more, so Fenris decided that was enough for today.

"I'll come back another time, if you'd like," Fenris offered, uncrossing his legs and standing. He wasn't entirely sure when he had decided on revisiting, or why for that matter, but there was no denying he did.

"If you'd like," the boy repeated without inflection. Fenris took that as a yes and nodded, before turning around to leave. As he did, he heard in almost a whisper behind him, "Myrin. I'm Myrin." Fenris turned his head just enough to give the boy, Myrin, a confirmation he had heard before facing front and exiting the alienage.