Behind closed doors, namely the Amell mansion's doors, Fenris paced so broodingly hard and fast enough it had begun to wear down both the stone floor and Varric Tethras's last nerve. Even Gir, Hawke's mabari and Fenris's constant companion since the Champion's departure, whimpered by the staircase.
"This is your fault. It's been a year since she's sent word, Varric. And nearly two since I've laid eyes on her. And you can't tell me where she is. There's a hole in the sky, that abomination we killed in the Vinmark mountains is somehow alive, there may or may not be another blight, and I know her, Varric. She is taking the blame. She's going to try to fix all this." The pads of his feet slapped audibly against the tile. Slap, slap, slapslapslap.
"You know she would have me flogged—no, she would personally flog, flay, and dismember me if she found out I told you where she is." Slap, slap, slap.
"Why did you even come back to Kirkwall, Varric? You could have sent word."
"The Inquisition has a lot on their hands right now. I was following a lead about the red lyrium origins and it brought me here but the trail's run cold. I don't like it when leads die out on me. The Herald is asking for me to return, so I am leaving as soon as I'm finished here with you."
Slap, slap, SLAP, SLAPSLAPSLAP.
The sharp sizzle of magic was electric on Varric's tongue, he could feel the hairs on his arm—nay, his chest—stand.
"Andraste's armpit, Smiley! You're going to wake the dead with all that pacing! Look, it's okay to be worried about the woman you love. She's fine, believe me. Look at how much shit we all went through together. And this? Is a walk in Val Royeaux! She needs you to stay here and keep—"
"The red templars and slavers under control until she gets back. I know that, Varric. But how can I even concentrate on anything when the world is crumbling and I can't… I'm not with…"
Finally Fenris stopped pacing with his back to Varric and stared straight ahead, chapped hands fisted at his sides as his lyrium markings very faintly glowed through his sleek black armor. The elf's eyes, Varric knew, were drawn to the family painting of the former Amell household: Hawke, her late mother, and sister, Bethany.
This was Fenris's favorite painting of Hawke. Despite the decorum her mother had forced upon her for the event, Hawke had appeared happy. In the image, her rosy lips were turned ever so slightly into a smile, her cheeks ever so slightly pinked but it was her eyes that told of her unspoken joy. The painter had captured their fire and Fenris himself had made sure the artist, a poor former slave self-taught in the arts, had received an anonymous lavish tip. Afterwards, Fenris received word the artist had moved to the heart of creativity in Val Royeaux.
The reasons for Hawke's joy at the time of the painting had been simple: she had just secured their family home, amassed a fortune even Gamlen couldn't gamble away, and Fenris had finally and begrudgingly admitted his feelings for her. How childish, how many years had been wasted running away from something as inevitable as her.
"What if she doesn't come back, Varric?"
Varric sighed, unsure how to soothe the broodiest elf that had ever existed under the Maker's eyes, even out-brooding Chuckles on a bad day. The dwarf fingered the unread letters in his pocket from Hawke lying in his pocket. The wax seal still held the contents' secrets. It had been a set of two, one in either pocket. One in case she lived. One in case she died. Tentatively, he gripped one, withdrew it, and held it out.
"This is for you, Fenris. From Hawke."