When I wrote the last chapter for Lyrium's Hold I honestly thought it would be the end of Fenris' and Hawke's tale. Then a certain someone decided to start prodding me for a sequel, because surely our dear Fenris deserved better than the state I left him in? She kept throwing ideas at me in hopes of sparking inspiration. And some stuck. More popped up. And here we are. Another story, on Fenris' recovery. So many, many thanks are in order for my friend renfrees on the BSN (lethian on ) for all the brainstorming she has been doing with me over the past few months(!) and the valuable feedback. Without her this story would never have seen the light of day.

Because Fenris deserves better.

It was still early when Damian Hawke awoke. Waiting for his heart to stop fluttering in his chest and his breathing to slow, he opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. A cool draft found its way through a crack in one of the walls of the hut and caressed his face. He inhaled the air through his nose and let it escape through his mouth. The lingering impression of the nightmare, its prints still sharp in his mind, slowly began to fade.

It was just a dream, he told himself. Nothing more.

He was no stranger to bad dreams; they plagued him regularly. Damian was unsure whether it was simply due to everything he had gone through being fuel for demons and spirits alike to give shape to the Fade around them, or that it was a consequence of having turned to blood magic - even if he had refrained from practicing it for over a year now. Underneath the fur blanket he brushed the web of scars covering the inside of his lower left arm. Reminders of darker times. Normally he would not consider their presence comforting, but now they ensured him he had woken up and the scene echoing in his head was not a real memory. He opened and closed his left hand as much as possible, feeling the poorly healed joints and scar tissue resist the movement. It had been quite some time since a nightmare had shaken him like this. Normally the relief upon awakening was enough to shrug it off but this one had been particularly disturbing. Taking a real event and completely warping how it had played out... The scene had been so vivid he could easily replay it in his head. Fenris' sister speaking but refusing to even look in their direction. Danarius descending from the stairs in the Hanged Man, smile on his face, triumph in his voice.

"If you want him, he's yours."

That was not what had happened, was not what Damian had said. He had stood by Fenris' side, defended him. And yet those were the words that had come over his lips in the dream. Fenris' shock, expressed with a single "what?!", followed by a plea. "Don't do this. I can't fight him without you."

Danarius' amusement, a promise of recompense.

"You're on your own, Fenris."

It would all have been bearable if Fenris had fought. The dream should have culminated into a battle, with everyone getting a taste of the warrior's blade, of his ghostly fingers in their chests. Damian would have been happy if this disturbing dream version of himself had paid with his life for his betrayal. Instead he had watched Fenris' resolve crumble. The nightmare had taken Fenris' eyes and made all hope die in them in an instant, had shown his shoulders slump and his head hang in defeat. And he had followed Danarius out of the Hanged Man, out of Hawke's view. Crushed back into obedience, no will of his own left.

"Thank you, Master."

Damian turned on his side and watched the outline of Fenris - half curled up into himself as a protective ball under the blanket - in the bed on the other side of the small room. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat at the memory of those three words which continued to haunt him. He had become intimately acquainted with the submissive side which had been drilled into the ex-slave, but that was not by choice. The lyrium from the unstable markings had poisoned Fenris' mind and forced a state of dementia onto him, making the elf fall back into the role Danarius had shaped him for. The thought that Fenris could also have reverted to hollow obedience by choice - or a choice made by Hawke - was not something Damian wanted to consider. Fenris, the real Fenris, was someone who fought till the bitter end. Damian did not want to believe otherwise. Even now Fenris was fighting, combating the damage the lyrium had done. It should have been irreversible. Irreparable. But more than a year ago, after months of no progress whatsoever, he had experienced a moment of lucidity, his identity briefly reclaimed. It had not lasted long but it had been there. And more had followed.

Improvement. Or at least it appeared that way. There was no predicting how this trend would continue, how much Fenris would recover. Damian had learned to take it one day at a time and not give the future much thought. He would take care of Fenris as long as necessary. Worrying about what would happen, how things would change if Fenris' mind got a proper, permanent foothold in sanity would do him no good. No false hope, no expectations and no fears. Surprisingly, it had become almost easy. Sometimes he wondered whether it should, or that it was wrong to have grown accustomed to seeing Fenris this way. Should he be wishing harder for a full recovery? Look forward to the day he was no longer needed in Fenris' life, even in a role as wrong and twisted as his current one? What would he do when the day came that Fenris permanently remembered every reason to walk away? He had no answers, nor did he wish to find them. Perhaps that was an answer in itself.

The last remnants of the nightmare began to dissolve, becoming harmless in the face of reality. And yet... Damian stared at the mess of white hair on the pillow. His dream had rubbed in how inevitable it had been. Either Fenris had returned with Danarius as a slave, or the magister's death had made the markings become unstable, resulting in the release of lyrium in Fenris' body and damage to his mind. Damian had fought with everything he had to save Fenris from that and worse, but there was nothing more he could do to help.

He pushed himself up and suppressed a shiver. There was no fire in this room and thus the nights tended to be cold. He had not heard the rooster yet, but the first birds started chirping in their trees so it could not take much longer. He might as well get up. Deciding not to wake Fenris yet, he quietly got dressed. On bad days it tended to upset the elf to discover he had overslept, but Damian had gotten better at handling most of the panicked outbursts. An incident like when Fenris had knocked him unconscious with a book and taken off had not occurred again.

Damian was preparing breakfast when Fenris shuffled into the kitchen and living area of their small hut. He kept his head bent and looked like he expected to be beaten or at least reprimanded. His hunched shoulders made him look even narrower than he was. Although he was no longer as frail as when he had awoken from the coma the markings had caused, he had yet to reclaim the frame of a warrior - if he ever would. His hair had not touched a comb yet this morning, and what little could be seen of his face was still crinkled with sleep. Damian offered him a friendly smile. "Morning. Did you sleep well?"

Fenris stiffened and hunched a little more. Apparently he interpreted the innocent question as mockery of the fact he had stayed in bed longer than Hawke. "Apologies, Master. I didn't mean to- it won't happen again."

Damian ensured the smile remained on his face but could not stop it from leaving his eyes. Even after all this time, Fenris' ability to perceive friendly remarks as criticism or worse could still catch him off guard. "It's no problem, Fenris. Don't worry about it. Just go freshen up. Breakfast is almost done." He gestured at the bathroom door. "Water should still be reasonably warm."

Fenris nodded, muttered a quiet "Yes, Master" and disappeared in the tiny space they used for washing while Damian returned his attention to the eggs he was baking. He ran a hand through his hair, then tied the upper half together to keep it out of his face. Fenris appeared to be reasonably calm this morning. A good sign. Although the elf's mood swings could be unpredictable, they tended to be worse if the day started off badly.

Ten minutes later they sat down to have breakfast - eggs, some bread, along with milk and cheese traded with the farmers living in the village not far from their quiet home – and make plans for the day. Or rather, Hawke talked about the work he intended to do around the hut while Fenris nodded in confirmation at everything and gave short answers to whatever he was being asked. Damian had long since started to feel like he was talking to himself instead of having a conversation when he did so but he kept it up nonetheless. "Looks like the weather will be nice today," he remarked while trying to make a piece of egg stay on his slice of bread. "You can tell spring's almost here. I'm looking forward to it. Although the winters aren't so bad here as they could be in Ferelden or Kirkwall. I think it might be because of the wind. Especially in Kirkwall there could be such a cold wind coming from the ocean. We're so much farther inland now." He took a bite and chewed on it thoughtfully. "We'll probably need more wood for the fire to last till the warmer months, though. I'll chop some today. Even magical fire likes something to burn on to last. Were you cold tonight?"

Fenris shook his head, quickly swallowing his small bite to clear his mouth. "No, Master."

Damian interrupted his eating for a moment. "You don't need to refer to me as master," he corrected patiently. He had lost count of how many times he had said these exact words long ago and the effect never lasted. Yet he could not bring himself to ignore it. "You can call me Hawke. Or Damian, but you only do that when you- you never do that anyway. So Hawke is fine. Or 'hey you!' can work too. I discovered I've started listening to that too in Kirkwall." He offered a half-smile to encourage Fenris to laugh at his joke but as expected the white-haired elf remained serious. Apparently having a sense of humor was one of the many things not permitted for slaves.

"Yes, Hawke."

No panicking about being sold or kicked out. Another good sign. Damian cleaned his plate with his last chunk of bread. "Good. I'll go do the dishes. Do you want to feed the chickens? Maybe we can go fishing in the afternoon. If we're lucky we can get some to bite."

It was indeed a beautiful day. A shy, watery sun decided to test her warmth after the shortest winter days and successfully melted the night's cold away. Despite regular breaks Damian felt his body heat up and becoming sweaty from the woodchopping. Every now and then he checked up on how Fenris was doing, as the elf tended to grow restless if he saw Hawke laboring for prolonged periods of time. When he was being begged for orders and reveal what would please him, Damian tended to send Fenris to pick weeds in the garden or dust surfaces in the house. Small, light tasks to keep him busy while Damian took care of the heavier work. Fenris could undoubtedly handle more by now, at least physically, but Damian did not want to ask someone with the mindset of a slave to do something unless it was absolutely necessary. And he was not of a mind to let Fenris get close to an axe.

It took longer than Hawke had anticipated, but eventually he had chopped plenty of firewood to last them for several more weeks. His gurgling stomach informed him it was well past noon while he put the axe away and began to add the new woodblocks to the pile behind the hut. He was about halfway done when Fenris rounded the corner and came walking towards him. Damian did not need to see more than two steps to notice the change: Fenris moved with determination, his strides quick and firm, as if he were in a hurry. The slouch and hunched shoulders that made him look so much smaller had made way for a straight back and a head held high. Stopping in front of Damian, Fenris did not lower his gaze but openly met the mage's eyes. Already? But it's only been two days.

It was a glimpse of the old Fenris, the person he had come to know so intimately and had put his life and soul on the line for. A sight which should be familiar but somehow filled him more with nervousness than joy.

Fenris demandingly held out his right hand. "Give me your knife."

Taking a moment to collect himself, Damian placed his hands against his lower back and leaned back to let the sore vertebrae pop. How to act when Fenris momentarily returned to his old self was something he continued to struggle with, even as Fenris' lucid periods became more frequent. He suddenly felt like he had swallowed a stone and it was sitting heavily on his stomach. "Where are we?"

"Nevarra."

"A little more precise than that."

Fenris crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Near the river."

"What is the name of the river? There's only one in Nevarra."

A pause. Fenris' face remained impassive, impatient even, but the way he blinked twice in quick succession betrayed his uncertainty. "I don't know," he admitted eventually, the corners of his mouth pulling down just slightly in frustration.

That's definitely something he knew before. Even when lucid his memory is not without holes.

"It's the Minanter River," Damian told him. "It moves through all of Nevarra and the Free Marches before connecting to the Amaranthine Ocean, though. Can you narrow our position down further? Do you know the name of the nearest town?"

"How am I supposed to know that if you don't know either?"

The reply got a soft chuckle from Damian. "I don't think the tiny village closest to us even has a name. I meant the nearest city you could find on a decent map." When Fenris did not answer he decided to offer prompts to help him. Rubbing the failings of his memory in tended to upset the elf and throw him out of his lucid state. "Are we west or east of the capital?"

"West." The relief that he knew the answer this time lit up Fenris' eyes in a way which did not escape Damian.

"West or east of Hunter Fell?"

"West."

"Caimen Brea?"

Another moment of silence while Fenris wrecked his memory for certainty that remained out of his reach. "West?" The slight rise in the pitch of his voice turned it into a question.

Damian smiled and nodded his encouragement. "Good. We're actually southwest of Nessum as well, so not very far from the origin of the Minanter River."

The smile was not reciprocated. Instead Fenris held out his hand again. "Give it here."

Damian ignored the demand. "When were you last lucid?"

"Yesterday."

"Two days have passed, actually."

This time Fenris could not keep his frustration and disappointment properly hidden behind a neutral expression. He nodded slowly, a few strands of hair falling in front of his face as he did so to shield himself from Hawke's gaze.

"It's progress, Fenris." Damian moved to give the man's arm an encouraging squeeze but quickly stopped himself, more out of reservations of his own than Fenris'. Whenever possible he avoided touching the elf. Under no circumstances did he want to repeat what had happened during Fenris' first moment of clarity. It had taken Damian days to bring himself to get out of bed after that. His promise to Fenris had kept him going. I will always take care of you.

Fenris must have noticed Damian's jerky moment and guessed his intent, because he looked up, his eyes hard and his emotions under control again. A pointed look at the empty palm of his waiting hand made it clear he did not intend to repeat his request.

Of all the things he can choose to persist in. Damian suppressed a groan and scratched his chin through his beard. "You know, I'm still not comfortable with this. What if your lucidity suddenly slips? You already stabbed – and killed – someone with my knife once. A mage too."

Fenris did not appear impressed by Hawke's protests. "So you keep saying."

"It's still as true as the first time," he muttered.

"I will not stab you."

"A promise you are bound to forget if things go wrong is not very comforting."

Impatience rippled across Fenris' features. His brow lowered into a scowl. "Your comfort would have been of greater concern if you had not turned to the arts of maleficarum." His outstretched hand twitched, a sign that it still waited to be filled. "We have gone over this before."

Damian sighed. "Indeed we have. And it never ceases to feel pointless. You do realize this would hardly prevent me from doing harm if I wished to? I just used an axe to chop wood, and maybe I have a splinter now..." Another glare from Fenris silenced his protests and made him sigh again. "And surprisingly that does nothing to reassure you. Fine. Here." He removed the old, small knife from his belt and carefully handed it to Fenris, whom immediately closed his fingers around the handle and walked away. Damian followed him into their hut, intent to not let the elf out of his sight while he was holding a weapon. Dementia patients and sharp, pointy objects were always a risky combination, even if said patient was Fenris. Especially if said patient was Fenris.

They had indeed gone through the same exchange numerous times before. It had become somewhat of a constant between them whenever Fenris came to his senses. Not giving in to Fenris' demand would no doubt be the safer option, but Damian did not want to keep fighting over the issue every time and aggravate Fenris too much. He had learned that being calm and accommodating had the most positive effect, and if he could ease Fenris' mind a bit with regards to his blood magic he was willing to take a risk. Not that he really understood why Fenris kept insisting on this particular measure. He could not rule out that it was merely meant to annoy him, but he had given up on trying to get a proper explanation. So he watched as Fenris moved to hide the knife from view under a pile of books – a precaution for when the lucidity would lapse.

"Not there," he quickly interjected. "You hid it there last time." Changing the hiding place should decrease the chance Fenris somehow remained aware of the knife and would be able to retrieve it when he should not. No need to add to the risk

Fenris shot a look over his shoulder, then nodded and placed the knife on a high shelf. Once Damian had assured himself it was out of view he went to the cabinet to grab quill and ink. "I'll mark the calendar for you."

After the first three periods of lucidity Fenris had experienced, they had begun to record them to keep track. Damian scribbled down a note for today's date, then showed the page for the current month to Fenris. There was no denying Fenris' condition was improving. His mind cleared more frequently and remained that way for a longer amount of time. The last few periods had lasted several hours. Even two months ago Damian would not have believed the improvements would continue at this rate. For how much longer this trend would persist he did not dare to guess. Neither of them had spoken of the possibility of a full recovery and what would happen should that moment arrive, despite it obviously being on both their minds.

Silence fell. Neither of them knew what to say now their squabble had been resolved. Damian put the calendar away and repeatedly flexed his left hand. It hurt after wielding the axe during the entire morning. Several of the joints in the hand and fingers had not healed properly after they had been broken, leaving the use of his hand hindered. He was no longer capable of fully closing it and most of his grip had to be provided by his thumb.

Eventually he drew in a deep breath. Will this ever stop being so awkward? "So..." he began, "The chicken coop needs to get cleaned out. Could you do that?"

Fenris' upper lip drawing up in disgust made it clear how this suggestion was perceived.

Damian shrugged apologetically. "You don't have to. I can do it, but you've said you wanted to help."

"I did?" Fenris feigned ignorance.

"You did. Repeatedly, in fact."

"I know. I remember." Fenris shook his head as Damian deflated at the realization the elf had been pulling his leg. After a moment of consideration he added: "I want to practice afterwards."

Now it was Damian's turn to pretend he did not know what the other was talking about. "Practice? I daresay you don't need extra practice to deal with chicken shit."

No smile from Fenris in return. "Sword practice."

Wonderful. So that stuck as well. Damian dragged a few fingers through his hair, untangling a couple of knots that had formed during his work. "I'm not sure that's-"

"I am not asking for your permission," Fenris cut him off, steel warning in his voice.

"Well, that's nice, but I don't have a blade for you to practice with."

Puzzlement, while Fenris tried to validate past events in his mind, followed by an accusatory glare when he found a solid memory to hold on to. "Do not try to fool me, mage. I remember training with a wooden sword."

Damian spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "You did, but you destroyed it out of frustration when the training didn't go well enough to your liking. I haven't had the chance to make you a new one yet."

I could have known he'd not let this go. Fenris without a sword is like... a dog without drool. A little nervous he waited for a reaction. It was no surprise that Fenris had no recollection of the end of his most recent training session. His anger had quickly thrown him back into the hold of dementia and he rarely remembered anything that had occurred not long before the end of his lucid moment.

On Fenris' face the desire to accuse Hawke of lying warred with the more reasonable part that wanted to accept the explanation. Damian could sense the recovering warrior's frustration at the thought he had let his temper get the better of him and not even remembering it.

Eventually reason won. Fenris folded his arms again, a posture he often assumed when he wanted to disagree but could not. "Then I ask you to make me a new one."

Please was noticeably absent from the request; a compromise to not have to admit full defeat after Damian had not immediately fully clarified the situation, but Damian could see the word shine in the large emerald eyes.

"I will," he promised.

"Or I can do it myself."

"No." He probably could have gone about that in a slightly less direct manner, but after just having explained why the previous wooden sword had been reduced to splinters Damian felt little need to elaborate on why this qualified as a bad idea. In hopes of distracting Fenris, he quickly came up with an alternative solution. "Maybe in the meantime you could try other exercises to strengthen your muscles? I admit I have shied away from giving you heavier work to do, but perhaps it's time to strain your body a little more. You could help put the firewood away. After you've cleaned the chicken coop." Amusement vibrated in his voice when he spoke that last sentence.

For a moment it appeared the corners of Fenris' mouth wanted to curl up, but then the elf simply nodded, his face firmly set in its stony expression.

What he would not give to see Fenris smile again. Or better yet: hear that deep, throaty laugh. With a sad twinge in his stomach Damian realized he could not remember when they had last laughed together.

I don't think we're going fishing today.

After sharing a small lunch they went back outside and did their chores as long as daylight lasted. Fenris spent most of his afternoon dragging logs back and forth, even after they had all been placed in a neat pile against the hut. He probably would have kept it up in the dark as well if Damian had not coerced him into allowing himself a rest and lending a hand with cooking. The elf must be feeling sore now, but Damian knew better than to argue. He would heal the scratches and splinters once Fenris' mind had retreated from clarity. Fenris was pushing himself; that much was clear, but as long as sore muscles and a few scratches were the only damage, Damian would let it be.

Dinner had been predictably quiet, but Fenris remained himself throughout – possibly a new record. Although he was not asked to, he helped wash the dishes. After he had dried the last pan and put it away, Fenris wandered over to the stack of books lying near the couch. Apparently there was nothing to his liking, because he approached Damian instead of picking a book. "Do you have anything to read?"

"I have a new letter from Carver." Damian rummaged through the correspondence he had put in a drawer of the cabinet and handed two sheets of parchment to Fenris. "It will get you bonus points for deciphering his handwriting."

Fenris settled against a pillow on the couch, close to the burning hearth, while Hawke sat back at the dining table to give him some space. Although he tried not to, Damian could not help but repeatedly glance in his direction. Fenris hated it when he stared at him but it was difficult not to look. Even from a distance and with his white hair shielding his face from the side, the look of concentration on the elf's face was evident, the way his lips quietly moved as he tried to discern Carver's offensively sloppy handwriting impossible to miss. He held the letter in one hand, tilted to catch enough light from the fire to read, while his free hand absentmindedly rubbed the markings swirling over his lower arm.

Once, they would have been sitting together, sharing the heat of each other rather than that of the fire. Fenris would have read aloud and Damian would have listened, with Fenris' warm presence against his chest, the scent of his hair in his nose and a glass of wine close at hand. Even a letter from Uncle Gamlen would have been a pleasure to listen to if it was read in that low, gravelly voice.

Damian shut the longing for events of the past down. He could no longer make such claims to Fenris' proximity.

They did not speak much during these lucid periods, usually limiting themselves to brief exchanges of necessities. So when Fenris' voice unexpectedly reached Damian's ears he nearly jumped in his chair in surprise. His first assumption was that he was being scolded for staring and he quickly tried to pretend he had been looking at the ceiling, before realizing what Fenris was actually saying. "Your brother writes about suspicions of corruption within the Wardens' ranks?"

Fighting the tendency to look overly surprised by the fact that Fenris was suddenly striking up a conversation, Damian nodded. "He does. He already mentioned several Wardens suddenly moved south without having actual orders to do so in an earlier message."

Fenris peered at the page in his hand. "And now they have lost contact with multiple outposts in Orlais."

"Yes, and he heard from a friend who was stationed in Ferelden that the Wardens there have been called back to Orlais too."

"Could it be a new Blight?"

"By the Void, I hope not!" Damian leaned back and suppressed a shudder. The darkspawn horde pouring over Lothering and chasing him and his family through a landscape that died and was tainted more with every step was something he would never forget. He would be happy if he never saw one of those monsters again. He did not envy Carver. "If darkspawn activity was the reason, why would Carver not be informed? The Grey Wardens are a secretive order but it makes no sense to hide an upcoming Blight from their own colleagues. He claims he talked to Stroud about it and he doesn't understand what's going on either. It all sounds very strange. Maybe it has something to do with the holes in the sky Varric wrote about? The biggest destroyed an old temple in Haven and the peace conference that was being held within. Do you remember hearing about that? Apparently they're tears in the Veil and demons can enter our world through them. Could be that the southern Wardens are trying to deal with them. Demons are not much friendlier than darkspawn... Fenris?"

Fenris' gaze had turned distant an unfocused. When Damian spoke his name he blinked a few times before finally looking Hawke's way. Once he did, he hastily got to his feet and hurried over to the table. "Forgive me, Master. I did not hear."

Damian softly shook his head and rubbed his face. "It's nothing. Never mind." He dragged himself out of the chair. "I'm going to check on the glyphs. I'll be right back.

He reached for his staff and grabbed a lantern, which he lit with a quick flick of his fingers, then left the room. It was pitch black outside, the only light coming from his lantern and the windows in the hut. The stars and moon did not manage to shine through the tall trees, despite the absence of leaves. Damian walked down the path toward the first glyph of paralysis. There was little reason to expect trouble. So far the glyphs had only ever had to trap an angry boar. No sign of Templars, bandits, demons or Seekers anywhere near their hideout. Keeping Fenris from accidentally – or purposefully – getting away had become the primary purpose of the spells, and even that had only happened a handful of times. Normally he merely had to recast them to maintain their effectiveness.

When his light source illuminated a human-shaped silhouette on the glyph's location, Damian nearly dropped the lantern. There was someone here. Someone had found the track leading to the shack and decided to follow it. Out of curiosity, or with a purpose in mind? Hawke's heart started beating faster. With a few long strides he closed the distance to the helpless intruder. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

He raised the lantern to get a better look. The trespasser was a young man, no older than early twenties. Soft, fuzzy hairs covered his upper lip and cheeks which had not fully lost the roundness of boyhood yet. He wore a wide, light green hood which was secured with a metal pin near his left shoulder. Underneath the hood he wore an odd, beige helmet. Because Damian was taller than him and the paralysis did not allow him to tilt his head, the boy could only get a look at Hawke's face by making his eyes roll up. "Serah Hawke?"

He knows my name! No mere peasant who had wandered here by accident then. Damian flipped the staff over in his hand to raise the sharp blade at the bottom of the weapon to the intruder's throat. He could burn the boy to a crisp if he chose to do so, but for now he would not openly display his status as a mage. The paralysis could still be blamed on poison or some sort of cunning trap. "What do you want?" he demanded in a low voice.

The boy's eyes flicked back and forth between Hawke's face and the staff. "I..." His throat worked as he swallowed. "My name is Willem. I have a message from Varric Tethras for the Ch-champion of Kirkwall."

Damian slightly increased the pressure of the blade. "I travel to the nearest city to collect my messages. Why would Varric suddenly send a messenger all the way to my doorstep?"

"This-this is urgent, Messere! Messere Varric wants your reply as quickly as possible. It has to do with the Inquisition!"

How many times do I need to tell that dwarf I'm not interested? "Where is this message?"

The messenger breathed quickly through his mouth. "In my bag," he whined. "See for yourself. Please..."

After a long, hard look at his unannounced guest Damian finally lowered his staff, hung the lantern on a decorative spike at the top and let it lean against his shoulder to balance it. With his hands now free he opened the messenger's satchel and retrieved a single scroll. He took two steps back before breaking the seal. His eyes raced over the lines, clearly written by Varric's hand.

"Well, shit."