Topography: "spoken dialogue," "flashback dialogue," 'thoughts,' emphasis, _ shifts in pov/setting

A/N: For some inspirational art, check out the notes on my AO3 post of this fic. Very special thanks to renfrees for editing and helping me get over the pre-post jitters. It is beyond appreciated ;) Happy 2015 to any new readers and to all the lovely folks who R&Red my other FenWreath stuff. You guys are the well that inspiration springs from. Thank you for existing! This can be read on its own, but it's set quite firmly within my corner of the DA universe. If you haven't read 'The Trouble with Luck' and 'Eighteen Sunsets,' some references might not make sense. This is loosely based on DA:I's 'Champions of the Just' quest and DA2 lore. It's pretty much written as it came to me, so if anything clashes with Bioware canon just call it AU and go with it. Kind of Exorcist-meets-Dragon-Age, so if that's a major squick for you, back away now. Read on at own risk.

~Temptation~

The look on Fenris' face as they stepped across the threshold said that he too felt the wrongness of the house, pulsing like an open wound in the Fade. Arshavir's growling had begun as they approached from the street, hackles rising, scenting the air.

The Veil was thin about the Harrimans' estate, even for Kirkwall.

And something had siphoned across.

In hindsight, they should've turned around and left at once as elf and Mabari had obviously wished to. It was incredibly ironic (not to mention brazenly idiotic) but Hawke's justification for holding his peace and forging ahead was that he was ill prepared for the inevitable salvo of questions from Sebastian. As far as the Prince of Starkhaven was concerned, Wreath Aristide Hawke was a sell-sword refugee; one who'd caught a proverbial bone from a dwarf and clawed his way out of the gutter with help from his mother's family name. Even as the last of the Vaels vacillated on his place in the Chantry, he remained staunch in his support of the Circle and templars. He was suitably 'traditional' in his approach to apostates as well, and Hawke would've just as soon not been the one to challenge his views.

The attack didn't come immediately, of course. That would've made for too easy a retreat. The creature's power, however potent, was tied to its domain and like a spider, it waited for its quarry to blunder nearer to the centre of its web.

One of the first skills Wreath's father had set about training him and later Bethany in, was how to go about drawing on the spirits for aide. In Malcom's words: "Align your will to the virtuous, and the vices will not find you." Casting would always attract attention from beyond the Veil. There was nothing a mage could do about that, but by checking one's motives, constantly shaping one's magic into a tool of service as opposed to might, there was a measure of control to be had over the type of scrutiny that was drawn. A clustering of spirits, pulled by an unwavering sense of fortitude, or integrity – or indeed, even justice – was a better shield against demons than the fear any templar could hope to instil.

Yet, as sharks in the ocean clamoured to the scent of blood, so demons flocked to hubs of iniquity while spirits preferred to withdraw. The result was that the Fade about Kirkwall was a perilous realm for a mage, with precious few spirits to call upon and many, many a demon to push back. Hawke had seen the losing end of that battle once before, when that girl of Thrask's – Olivia – succumbed. He'd wondered ever since. Morbidly, aversely, what did one experience at that pivotal moment?

How would it feel?

To have something come upon him and drive out his soul, keeping only what it deemed of use and purging what it did not?

Once, he'd gone so far as to pose that question to Anders, shortly after their return from the Deep Roads. They were speaking of the Grey Wardens; of the length and depth of the burden assumed by members of that Order and the impetus behind the blonde's decision to run. Hawke had been trying to convince himself that the life he'd thrust his nineteen-year-old boy of a brother into (if Carver survived this 'Joining' Stroud spoke of) was indeed preferable to a swift, clean death. He'd been drinking, too much, and the words left his mouth without input from his mind, "Tell me, Ande, how does it feel? When Justice takes over?"

The other mage had taken his leave rather than respond.

And nothing Hawke's musings had conjured came remotely close to the truth.

Fenris' markings prickled, agitated by the currents of otherworldliness that hung like stagnant smog on the air. He risked a glance at Hawke, finding the mage's eyes boring into the back of the prince's skull and an answering disquiet coiled in his belly. For all Hawke's wealth, he was still an apostate. Just as armour and a blade, fine clothes and jewellery hadn't made him any less of a slave. Over the years, they'd all taken pains to help safeguard the erstwhile bounty hunter's secret from the Chantry's authorities (along with the Abomination's and that of the Alienage witch) but Sebastian was a fair-minded man.

For a human.

For a royal.

But, the prince was Hawke's friend. Surely he could be made to underst—

The thought went unfinished as a memory rose from the previous week: a visit to the Lowtown market to service his armour, disrupted by the appearance of templars and one young runaway.

The mageling, all of fifteen if that, had fallen to his knees, hands aloft, crying his surrender, but that did not dissuade the knights from bringing out the bindings. Leather and metal, a collar and shackles. Imbued with lyrium, the restraints worked to absorb any mana a mage might attempt to draw on. Activating the syphon had sent the boy into a fit of convulsions, eyes rolling, jaw locking, soiling himself right there on the street as he flopped like a fish on the cobbles. The templars had laughed, and none who looked on had dared to intervene.

A child who submitted, versus a man who'd lived a third of a lifetime in defiance of the law.

If the former was met with such force, how much 'understanding' could the latter possibly hope to evoke?

Mouth dry, Fenris' throat clicked as he swallowed. While in the Imperium, the notion that anything might instil fear in a mage (save for the designs of another, more formidable of his brethren) had never entered his mind. Since meeting Hawke, though, he'd received thorough schooling on the limitations of magic and how painfully powerless even a man who commanded the Fade could be. As if drawn by his thoughts, the Fereldan's gaze turned to him. Questioning. Filled with concern – as though Fenris were the one risking too much in this place – and a growing sense of affront boiled behind his sternum.

As if Hawke's balking in the Vimmark Wastes hadn't been trying enough...

"…Deep Roads," the mage had muttered, stopping dead in his tracks.

"Hawke?" Varric had been the one to voice the question, reflected clear as day on the faces of the Abomination and that of the younger brother. Carver's visage had aged more than the three-odd years he'd been gone, all traces of youthful petulance replaced by the steel-eyed resolve of a man whose departure from childhood had been sudden and harsh. Fenris might've believed that nothing remained of the youth he'd met, were it not for the pride that lit in his eyes each time his elder sibling addressed him as 'Warden.'

"We're not going down there," Hawke declared, head shaking in emphasis. His face was streaked with blood from the last wave of mad Carta they'd cleaved through, caked with the fine red dust that covered the chasm, but the sun was high and Fenris stood close enough to see the colour leech from the lowborn mage's noble features.

"Wreath, you heard them," the younger Hawke cut in. "They're after our blood. Either we stop them here, or they'll keep on coming and I for one can't be worrying about a horde of dwarven demon lovers when I'm arse deep in genlock guts. Whatever it is, sort it and let's get this over with."

"We are not going down there, Carve!" Hawke bit out, rounding on his bother,"Not with—" He didn't look to Fenris, but it didn't stop the combined weight of the others' stares from settling on him, thick and heavy, like a fur-lined cloak in the blistering heat. "I won't risk it. I will not!"

The shadows had lengthened by the time Hawke was convinced to proceed and just as he'd done on that day, the elven warrior met the mage's worry with a green-eyed flash of exasperation. He was not made of glass, and whatever notion the other man had formed to the contrary, he would see it dispelled within the hour!

A woman's voice – "Flora!" asSebastian called out – echoed down into the atrium. The words were difficult to discern, as if her speech were impaired in some way. The tone, however, was agitated. Insistent. Unequivocally demanding.

Stalking up one flight of stairs and down another brought them to the estate's wine cellar and it was there that they found her, ranting at the barrels. Drunk, entitled and utterly oblivious to the advent of three armed strangers and a known adversary in her home. Varric braved a stab at finding humour in the moment, but no one, including the dwarf, had the stomach to summon a laugh.

"What in Andraste's name is going on in this house?! Perhaps…the servants?!" Sebastian husked, Starkhaven brogue roughened with horror and concern.

Fenris and Hawke both scowled sharply at that; even Varric arched a brow.

'Does he truly not know?' the elf wondered. It seemed incongruous for a Brother in the Chantry to be ignorant of such things, but then, even in Minrathous demons weren't dealt with unless bade. Of all the places his flight from slavery had led him, it was only in Kirkwall where such creatures seemed to sojourn as they pleased.

They followed the sounds of activity deeper into the manse, and it was as they turned a corner that they came upon the elven maid.

Held at knifepoint, her terror at the prospect of being drenched in molten gold was met with the blank-eyed insistence of a youth who obviously considered himself in command of events. "There's nothing to fear. You'll be beautiful!" he assured, as though urging her to suffer the donning of an uncomfortable gown.

Sebastian's fist landed solidly, sending the Alienage thug restraining her sprawling upon the flagstones. With the blade gone from her throat, the girl dashed toward the archway, her panicked sobs rebounding off the walls as she ran. The elvish brute rubbed at his jaw, beady-eyed gaze equal parts umbrage and alarm as he glowered up at the newcomers. With one hand, Fenris dug a sovereign from his purse, closing the other around the hilt of his greatsword in warning. "Take your leave," he sneered, flipping the coin. The other elf seized it, pouncing like a jackal upon carrion, before staggering to his feet and shambling from the room.

Having watched all this unfold with wordless dispassion, the lordling turned back toward the cauldron of bubbling metal, expression pensive as he mumbled, "Perhaps I should be the one."

For a moment, Fenris doubted his own ears, but the bewildered looks on his comrades' faces confirmed what he'd heard. He was no stranger to the coldblooded lunacy of humans in power, but the sheer…detachedness of this one? It would have been aberrant even in Tevinter.

For the first time since entering the house, a frisson of true fear rippled down his spine. Yes, he wished to thrust his worth as a warrior down the blight-taken mage's throat, but it would mean little if none of them survived the endeavour. The Mabari sidled up to him, whining deep in its chest as though to commiserate and Fenris settled a hand on the beast's massive head in acknowledgement. Together, elf and hound looked on as Hawke and the prince wrestled the nobleman into a chair while Varric found a length of cloth with which to bind him, dousing the flames heating the cauldron with a bottle of wine from a tray as he passed.

Fenris had not expected the visit to the Harimanns to be a blithe affair, but compared to the other burdens they shouldered – negotiating with the Qunari on the Viscount's behalf, evading templars and playing nursemaid to a blood mage and taint-riddled Abomination – the task had seemed simple enough. At worst, or so he'd thought as he donned his best tunic in place of his cuirass and gambeson that morning, the Harimanns' guards would turn them away at the door.

He prayed that this would be the end of it. Whatever Sebastian had aimed to achieve here, it was clearly not going to be accomplished today.

"This cannot be the entirety of the staff. Come, let us see if there are others in need of our aid."

Glancing at Hawke, the elf spotted a tick in the mage's jaw as he dithered, confirming that he was not alone in his second thoughts.

"Well?" Sebastian pressed, hand on the knob of the door he'd pulled open. At that, Hawke made a sound that could've come from his warhound and, with a pointed glance at the dwarf, strode after the prince.

Stifling a sigh, Fenris patted the dog on its scruff and resigned himself to following.

Creeping through the hallways, his masochistic streak stirred, gleefully reminding him of the pathetic swell of pride he'd felt when the Starkhaven heir requested his support…not to mention, the idiotic flutter in his chest at the prospect of seeing Hawke decked out in finery.

The Fereldan came from humble roots and while he'd endured the occasional soiree at his mother's request, his attendance had become nigh unheard of in the half-year since she was murdered. Fenris could not claim to take issue with this – not least due to the manner in which the highborn women of Kirkwall were wont to simper in the days that ensued. Some were so brash as to stop them on the street, ostensibly to 'chat' while they pawed at Hawke like a thoroughbred on auction.

While guaranteed to make Fenris' markings itch in a way that had nought to do with the Fade, he could not scorn the impulse altogether without succumbing to hypocrisy. Hawke was a strapping man and there was something about watching silk and velvet and calfskin strain as he moved that was undeniably…inviting.

Even now, grave as the atmosphere was, Fenris was only too aware of how good the mage looked, garbed in the midnight-blue and scarlet of the Amell Clan's ancestral colours. The coat had been sewn by Leandra herself: a bitter-sweet notion, rife with reminders of how much had been lost when she died. For Fenris, her death had robbed him of the closest equivalent to maternal regard he'd ever been shown, and also, of the routine of reading practice and a standing invitation to home cooked meals to account for his presence in her son's daily life.

Not that Hawke had slammed the door in his face since his mother's ashes had cooled. Quite the contrary, in fact, and therein lay the crux of his conundrum.

Falling into bed with a man like Hawke, only to briskly depart again was not the surest way to sustain a rapport – however guileless one's motives. Fenris had believed himself ready, he honestly had. And if not for the past he'd thought behind him, washing up on the Wounded Coast in a tidal wave of magic and blood it might well have proved true. The fleeting return of his memories hadn't helped either. The loss was a wound that had never fully healed and to have it reopened? It left him aching and raw, like a perpetually seeping gash in his mind, and the thought of enduring that again was enough to make his stride falter, even now.

Hawke, though, was a man unlike any he'd known.

Not the most genial, nor the most tactful when annoyed, yet remarkably sensitive to his friends' insecurities. He seemed to have accepted Fenris' reasons, even if he did not fully understand them. And frustrating as it'd been at some points, the excursion to the Vimmark Wastes had left the air between them decidedly clearer.

"…Your father seemed like a wise man who loved you all," he'd remarked in a stolen moment, beyond earshot of the others. An effusive observation – not least to make of a mage – but Fenris had meant it, and he did want to know,"What was it like, to hear his voice again?"

Hawke considered his answer. "Uncanny, I suppose," he said after a beat,"and brilliant. I wish my mother could have heard it. And Bethany." He heaved a sigh, breath shaking as he dragged the mouldering air into his lungs. It was then that his eyes flicked to the red cloth around Fenris' wrist and the elf could practically feel the memory spark: the first Carta ambush; Hawke bleeding on the ground while Fenris haplessly mopped up the flow. That bloodied favour had long since been discarded, burned to ash in his hearth, and replaced with a less incendiary strip of red silk. He hadn't explained the token's significance to Hawke and the mage had yet to ask, but Fenris had felt him watching, still weak after Anders' nick-of-time ministrations, as the original was knotted in place.

Down in the bowels of that subterranean tower, the corner of Hawke's mouth had turned upward (as close as he came to a smile most days) and one arm wrapped briefly around Fenris' shoulders as he murmured, "But I am pleased to have shared it with you…"

The sound of moaning pulled the elf from his thoughts.

It drew them down a side corridor and through an open doorway at the end. The decision proved instantly regrettable as they found themselves privy to as candid a view of the household's master as any of them could hope to live down. Sebastian sputtered an apology and it was as they retreated from the miasma of stale sweat, ejaculate and perfume that Hawke finally rounded on the Starkhaven heir.

"There's magic at work here, Vael! We all accompanied you in here – with only the most basic of armaments – on your oath that we would encounter no violence!"

Sebastian, who'd yet to weather the brunt of Hawke's temper, took a tiny step backward. "There's been no violence, Hawke!"

"Not yet!" Hawke snapped, "but I'm not pressing our luck by so much as another inch! We are taking our leave and we are not returning until we know exactly wh—"

Hawke broke off on a gasp, eyes widening. His head snapped back suddenly, hands scrambling to clutch at his face as if he'd taken a blow. Fenris shared the others' confusion as they watched him double over, hands fisting in his hair. Untrimmed since his mother's death, the strands had long surpassed shoulder-length, obscuring his face as he fell sidelong against a wall, chest heaving, muscles palsied.

"Hawke!" Varric cried, "Are you—What's wrong?"

Hawke's head came up as the dwarf made to approach and Fenris caught a glimpse of one slate-coloured eye, peering through the thick ebony streaks. The look he saw therein was one he knew too well: that of an animal, cornered by a predator it was not convinced it could defeat.

When Hawke spoke, the words came in bursts, slurred and hoarse as if uttered through a choke-hold. "Varric!…Shoot!…Me!" The demand degenerated into a scream, shredded through clenched teeth, and Fenris' lungs turned to stone as he watched the man's eye bulge, propelled on a grotesque tremor that rippled along the very bones of Hawke's skull.

Through the lyrium grafted to his flesh, he felt Hawke's Fade bond pulse, much as it had on the night they'd—on the night everything changed. The magic had been wild then too, but clean; powerful, yet benevolent. Like rain and hail and wind. A force of nature: dangerous, but pure. It carried an undercurrent now. Cloying and poisonous, and Fenris' petrified innards turned to water as he realised that he'd felt this before. In the Imperium. During Danarius' more 'discreet' experiments upon those of his kind he deemed less than himself.

What they were seeing, was a rape of the soul, perpetrated to conceive an Abomination.

The Mabari had launched into a mantra of howling growls as it danced about its master, the hound's loyalty admirable as it was impotent. Varric alternated between shouts of Hawke's name and vetoes of his grim appeal, and Sebastian— "What's happening to him?!" the prince cried, bow armed in his hands, horror thick in his tone.

"It's a demon!" Fenris grated out in reply. His own fingers itched for the weight of his sword, but what good would it do? It was common lore that a demon could not take possession of a mage without being invited. To even attempt to override a mortal's will, sans focuser; sans conduit…

The fiend they were dealing with was audacious and clearly strong enough to justify such nerve. Hawke, in turn, was a powerful caster. One who'd shaped his mana into a weapon and knew how to wield it in battle. Such was a feat few mages outside of Tevinter had mastered and it no doubt made for an alluring boon to a demon in search of a vessel. If the monster prevailed, the best the rest of them could hope for was that their deaths would be swift.

Fear rose in Fenris and with it, defiance – the same duality that had propelled him through the hunger and exposure and prejudice that spanned the breadth of a continent, rather than return to his bejewelled tether at a magister's heel.

"No! I will not allow it!" was his vow as he charged, rushing toward the writhing form of the one mage in Thedas he would rather die than watch fall.

The world had imploded in a mishmash of stimuli: the taste of colour, the smell of sound. Visions flashed, cleaving into his awareness like knives of gold, sweet and deadly like honeyed poison. Spines raked through him, clawing at his consciousness, striving to bury his very self beneath every inkling of desire they could snag:

Fenris: "…shall adore you. Ache for you. Beg for your touch. He will sigh your name as he finds rapture in your arms, and this time, he will stay…"

His mother: "…may yet live. Time is an illusion; to be bent, multiplied, altered. You may yet shield her from Quentin's perversion. Save her from her fate…"

Carver: "…can be cured. The taint purged from his veins. He can return to Kirkwall; walk at your side. If you would but free him from his burden…"

A thousand whispered seductions, seizing upon his yearning for peace. Stability. Freedom. For things he'd never consciously considered and for things the demon itself was working to rouse. Bloodlust, slaked upon a mountain of templar corpses. Avarice, sustained by the ruination of his enemies' fortunes and the endless proliferation of his own. Ambition, as he watched a man wearing his own face descend upon the Viscount's seat, the throne of Orlais, the Sunburst itself…

Franticly, Wreath grasped at threads: his father's voice; a clap on the shoulder from Aveline; Carver's letters; Fenris' smile…

He didn't dare want; didn't dare wonder. If he so much as acknowledged temptation—But holding fast to what was his became a game of trapping smoke as the demon latched onto every memory and rent it from him his grip, twisting it into something selfish, desirous and ugly. Corruption swirled around him, rushing in, dragging down, until it was all he could see, think, feel. It poured into him. Filling. Taking. Changing—

"…Wreath..."

Not his name so much as a flash of himself – a vision of the man he strove to be – imposing upon the maelstrom of base debasement flooding his soul. Desperate, drowning, he tried to reach. And then he felt it: a third will, pressing in through the Fade. It glittered, too multifaceted for a spirit's singularity of virtue, but diamond-hard. Impenetrable in its determination.

A tremor jarred his being as the demon reared in protest and Wreath felt the stranglehold on his consciousness slip, ever so slightly. Powerful as the fiend was, it could not subdue a second will without relinquishing its hold on his. And with an anchor in reach, maintaining that would prove decidedly more difficult as well.

Hawke was shaking, eyes half-closed as the whites rolled frighteningly behind the lids. Tears blurred Fenris' vision as he held the man's face in his hands, repeating his name (the one his mother had used) demanding that he fight, demanding his return.

He was vaguely aware of Sebastian shouting at him to move, but he paid him no heed. If the prince wanted to kill Hawke, he'd have to send Fenris with him. The Mabari's growling had given way to forlorn howls and Varric…Perhaps for the first time since Fenris had met him, the dwarf had run out of words.

Hawke jerked suddenly, spine bowing as snake-like ridges slithered beneath his skin and Fenris grabbed hold, flinging his weight on the larger man and holding on with more than strength. "No! You will not have him! You will not – he is mine! He is mine!" He had slipped into Tevene, snarling close to Hawke's ear as the human bucked beneath him. He'd seen this man's staunch opposition to the forbidden lures of the Fade; had experienced his dedication to guarding others from their reach. He'd heard Hawke's father speak; knew how important it was to him to live up to his sire's example – to prove that a mage could live free without becoming a threat.

And what Fenris desired, more than anything in that moment, was to see Hawke succeed.

There was no instant of clarity that told him what to do, no startling flash of realisation. Through the markings, he could feel the bright pulse of Hawke's Fade bond dwindle as the fetid undercurrent of the demon's grew strong and without thought, against instinct even, he set the lyrium ablaze and drew the Fade inside him; surrendering to its pull.

He was no mage and his pathways though the Veil ran only skin deep, but he could feel his conviction rippling outward, beyond himself, without losing momentum. And from somewhere, simultaneously near and far away, something answered.

On the periphery of the demon's stronghold, a beacon ignited, becoming two, then three.

Spirits.

Drawn by the steadfast resolve rippling through the tempter's domain.

Loyalty was the first to reach through the decadence, and the faces of Hawke's friends crystallised before him: Aveline, his sister in loss, smiling sadly as she raised a glass to the sharing of grief; Varric, an older and younger brother, a benevolent uncle and best friend, all rolled into one. And Fenris, who'd become the solid ground beneath his feet. Fenris, who, when the world had seemed that much more daunting without another Hawke's blade at his back, had stepped up and offered his own.

Fenris, who'd feared him, frustrated him, confused and confounded him, yet never once refused to stand at his side.

Fenris, who kept him moored. Even now.

Wreath focussed on the dazzling certainty that shone through the murk and aligned his will, reaffirming the promise etched upon his core: "…that which is best in me; not that which is most base."

The truth of it swelled in him, eclipsing the demon's distortions until the monster was the one thrashing to escape. Hawke felt its attempt to withdraw. However, weakened as it was by the thwarted possession, it found its path hindered by the spirits' advance. Unable to take a host, unable to retreat, its choices were two-fold: either let its nature be altered by the force of mortal will, or materialise in a form that bound its essence to itself – sealed in a sheath of blood and bone. Unchangeable. But so very breakable.

Gratitude, brilliant as the North Star upon the horizon, cut through the last of the covetous tar and Wreath reached out, grasping firm. Light flooded his being and like a drowning man breaking the surface, he breathed it in.

There was a flash and a shriek, like the rending of metal, and when Hawke's eyes fluttered open he was greeted by the distinct, defined realty of the corporeal realm. A weight pressed upon him.

Hair like moonlight.

The scent of leather and spiced Navarran soap.

There was a death grip on his shoulder, a choked gasp and then a hoarsely whispered, "Wreath?"

Wet green eyes peered down at him and his hand rose, needing to trace the finely-boned features. Needing to touch the truth of the moment…only to startle sharply as Arshavir's roar erupted across his awareness. There was the sound of mauling, a high-pitched keen and realisation struck like a hammer. Hawke shifted the elf aside with all the gentle reverence his discordant limbs could manage, which wasn't nearly as much as Fenris deserved. He scrambled to his feet with mana bursting from his palms, finding its target by instinct more so than aim.

Fire swirled through the reams of spirit and force magic blasting into the manifestation of lurid femininity and Qunari horns. The muddle of energies was testament to the assault unleashed upon his focus, but right then, Hawke was unconcerned with facades.

Storms of fire and lightning were what the masses envisioned when they heard the word 'mage,' thus relegating his own use of elementals to a last resort. Too blatant, too brazen, too blighted ostentatious for any apostate who valued his freedom. Hawke's casting reflected his status, defined by a near fanatical drive to repel attention rather than draw it. In practice, this made for a narrow, albeit effective repertoire of spells that either bolstered his sword or killed quickly with as little fanfare as possible.

Restraint had served him well true enough, but there was a primal satisfaction to be found in channelling his fury and fear into flames. The demon hissed as a particularly potent swirl of burning spirit force lifted it off its feet and flung it to the floor, pinning it where it fell.

'Not so bold from this angle, are you?' Hawke thought vengefully as the stench of searing flesh grew thick on the air, accompanied by a steady hike in the pitch of the creature's shrieks. Arsha's snarl was frenzied as he lunged, catching the lashing reptilian tail between his jaws and locking down. The creature shrieked again, a sound of panic as much as pain. There was a rush of air and a burst of black magic and suddenly, Hawke found himself casting at a disintegrating husk.

The creature had abandoned its form, fleeing back into the Fade.

"Shit!" he cursed under his breath. The friend was powerful. He'd known that already, but the lingering pulse of its corruption confirmed that it was stubborn as well. Its presence remained within the house, albeit decidedly weaker than it'd been when they entered.

Hawke was breathing hard. Moisture dripped from his brow and seeped down his spine in a trickle of ice. Nausea blurred his vision. His undershirt clung to him unpleasantly and there was a strange buzzing in his teeth. Worst of all, however, was the sense of being soiled from within; rattled down to the abused joints between flesh and soul. Those bindings held firm, though. His body was undisputedly his.

Steadying himself against a wall, Hawke closed his eyes and pressed his palms to the lids. In that moment he wanted only to breathe and offer a silent prayer of thanks that Fenris had been there…which, of course, was too much to ask.

"Apostate!"

The word exploded in his ears like the descriptions he'd heard of gaatlok. And with it, the Qunari Arvaarad's term for people like him: Saarebas – "dangerous thing; the accusation and acknowledgement of being a mage..."

Andraste knew, for all the Arishok and clergy's heated denounced of each other, Hawke couldn't help but marvel at how much they held in common on this score. He pried his eyes open and forced his reluctant legs to bear his weight. Sebastian was white-faced, his mouth firmed in a grim line of obvious terror, but his bow was steady, the arrowhead unwavering as it trained upon Wreath's unarmoured chest.

"Look, Your Highness," Varric was saying.

If the Vael heir had been better acquainted with Kirkwall's favourite wordsmith, he'd have realised that a switch to formality was perhaps the least prudent time to present one's back to the dwarf. As it was, Sebastian stood his ground, bow and gaze both steadfast upon Hawke.

"I like you," Varric went on, calmly as if they were discussing the matter over drinks in his suite. "You're a decent guy and I think you'd do alright as a ruler. But Hawke here? He's family. His friends are my friends," the click of the crossbow cocking resounded through the hallway, echoing through the confined space like a thunderclap, "and vice versa."

The prince turned slowly, eyes widening as his gaze settled upon Bianca, trained dead centre on his neck. Fenris had risen to his feet as well. His expression conveyed an apology as the prince looked to him, though if compelled to choose, there was no doubt as to where his allegiance would fall. Hawke saw the moment comprehension dawned on the royal. An apostate he might be; a pariah, he was not. As an ally, he had worth. As an enemy…

"Gentlemen," the mage chimed in, tone as conciliatory as he could make it. Sebastian was one of few humans in Kirkwall he could truthfully claim to respect, and his appreciation for the hand of friendship the prince had extended to Fenris was no slight thing either. Having a human royal recognise his merit had done much for the former slave's estimation of his place in the world. The last thing Hawke wanted was to be the reason that was lost to the elf.

"Please, there's no need—" he tried to appease, but the words dried up as he looked at Sebastian, noting the rigid set of his spine, the chips of ice in a gaze that'd conveyed only warm camaraderie an hour ago. Snippets of conversation flashed through his mind:

"…can't be treated like people…"

"…mages are weapons…"

"…never be in control…"

"…a mage is dead, that is all that matters…"

"…the templars are right…"

He remembered his father's dying breath as the older mage bled out in his arms; seeing his mother's hair turn grey overnight. He recalled the faces of the knights he'd slain: Alrik, Varnell, that bitch leading the assault on the Dalish, Karras and the fools who'd see fit to avenge such a man. Hawke had fought a demon and won – he'd won! The victory was his! And yet, all that mattered in Sebastian's eyes was that he'd been open to attack.

Cynicism rose like bile in his throat. "You know what, Vael? You heard the dwarf. I end up in the Gallows, you end." Hawke held the prince's gaze, giving the threat a moment to sink in. "If you're open to alternatives, however," he continued, affecting the put-upon ennui so frequently exuded by his neighbours, "I propose we find whatever it is that anchors the beast that lurks here, destroy it, send the creature back to the Void where it belongs and then, assuming neither of us expires in the attempt, I'll help you practice the Chant over a pint of Corff's finest – my treat. Your choice."

With that, Hawke turned, scooped his fallen sword up by its scabbard and stalked toward the nearest stairwell. Drawing the blade, he settled the baldric across his chest and unclipped the flask from his belt with his free hand, drinking deep of the potion within. If he really worked at it, he could almost convince himself that the bitter, metallic aftertaste was equivalent to liquorice (which he did, lest the idea of imbibing poisonous metal incite his stomach to rebellion). As much he loathed turning to lyrium, the thought of losing to this demon was less palatable by far.

"We're doing what?!"

The incredulous growl was punctuated with a vice-like hold on Hawke's bicep, dragging him to a wincing halt. Fenris' hand was too small to circumvent his arm, though, judging by the way his fingers bit into the muscle, he'd happily poke holes to strengthen his grip.

A scowl knitted Hawke's brows as he veered on his…what precisely?

'Friend' seemed too generic and 'lover' felt like grasping at straws. What Fenris had done only moments ago…what he'd risked on Hawke's behalf—

It was an intimacy that ran deeper than sex.

Hawke harboured no doubt that Fenris cared for him. Trusted him. Perhaps even wanted him. Yet, the elf had made his position clear: what had passed between them, should not have. To Fenris, lying with a mage of his own volition had been a lapse in judgement. Something to regret for a while, and then forget. Whatever else Hawke was, that one aspect of his being was enough to bar him from being anything more than a friend in Fenris' estimation.

'…which is more than you've a right to expect,' he reminded himself sternly, crushing the swell of self-pity before it could rise. Wanting was a foible of childhood and Hawke was a man of near thirty, a mage, and an apostate to boot; a criminal by virtue of his freedom. To share a drink with him was risking arrest, bartering goods was to court foreclosure and friendship, a hanging offence. What Meredith would see fit to inflict on a knowing, willing lover…

Wreath stifled a sigh, feeling thrice the sum of his years. In point of fact, he asked for too much as it was. His due was what he could defend with the strength of his hands and the force of the Fade and what he couldn't, was forfeit. Simple as that. Even then – even if he succeeded a hundred times – it only took one failure, one slip. His father had warned him, his brother and sister had proven as much, and his mother had driven it home. He was human. He was fallible. And sooner or later, those closest to him would end up paying the price.

"You heard me," was his curt response to Fenris' question, burying his hurt and guilt beneath a snarl of his own.

"Vishante—Have you gone insane?!"

"If you don't want to help, you know where the door is!" he sniped back, wrenching his arm from the elf's grip with enough force to make the slighter man stagger. Part of him was hoping Fenris would get angry and leave. Knowing what awaited them, he did not relish the prospect of dragging the man he…cared for any deeper into the bowls of this pit, but in truth, Hawke's confidence did not match his bravado. As entrenched as the demon was, it was unlikely to surrender this bastion without expending every ouch of resistance it could muster and driving it out would require all the aid he could find.

Simply taking his leave was not an option, either. Hawke was far from an expert on demons ('the only good fiend, is a dead fiend' had always sufficed) but the thing that dwelled here had marked him. If he let it survive, it would only get stronger and after Quentin and Gascard, relying on the templars was a gambit he would never risk taking again.

Fenris' mouth had curled into a sneer, green eyes flashing bloody murder. A slim hand fisted in Hawke's tunic, yanking him down to elven eyelevel—And Maker's breath, if he wasn't vaulted back to that rash, irrational moment. In the foyer of his estate. When all that'd made sense was to close the distance and meet that murderous snarl with a kiss.

The memory must have been infectious, because Fenris froze as suddenly as he'd advanced. As Hawke watched, his features softened, turning eager and tentative, ravenous and uncertain – just like that night. Unlike that night, though, uncertainty prevailed. The elf's lips thinned, teeth gritting as he veered away. His blade left its sheathe with a hiss as he took point, marching in the direction of the stairwell Hawke had been heading toward.

"Are you coming or not?" Fenris snapped without looking back, hardly breaking his stride.

Hawke risked a glance at the others. The gleam in the whisky-gold of Varric's eyes meant that he was in for a lecture when this was over. Either that, or his all too brief exchange with Fenris was going to resurface as the figurative (and likely literal) climax of the type of story Isabela usually proofread. Probably both. Fiction was how Varric coped with the perils of being a friend to an apostate; his way of seeing that everything turned out alright, even if only on paper, and Hawke wasn't about to object.

Arshavir trotted past him. Muzzle stained with demon's blood, the Mabari did not deign to spare him a look as he trailed after the elf. 'Wonderful,' Hawke thought wryly, gaze settling on the prince.

Sebastian still glowered suspicion, but he seemed to have concluded that an apostate was indeed the lesser evil in the house. Sighing, Hawke unclipped the flask from his belt and held it out to the archer. Fenris didn't need extra and Varric, being a dwarf, was immune, but Sebastian – Chantry Brother or no – was fair game.

"Lyrium," he explained as the prince's brows rose dubiously at the offer. "Take a swig, Vael. No harm in bolstering the faith."

End A/N: Way I see it, lyrium has some mental enhancement properties for non-mages if used responsibly. What Hawke offers to Seb is a potion (probably brewed by Anders who still kind of likes him at this point). Weighing the risks of chugging some of that, versus demonic possession...well, I figured the lyrium would be worth it. It's also a one-time deal for Seb. From what I gather, templars' problems come from routine use. Just saying.