Oh hey look, I'm alive.

sorry for my lengthy absence. Here, have the longest chapter I've ever written. (I think.)
Certainly the longest unbroken scene I've ever written. O_O

Anyway, hope it's any good. Read and review if you like!


Fenris stepped out of the shadows and reached into yet another Qunari's chest, letting the sharp points of his armor solidify around the creature's heart. He was even more blood covered than usual, droplets spraying across his face and further marring his twisted expression. He was taking out his anger on the invaders. He was aware enough to know it, but couldn't bring himself to care. He needed the bodies and the blood. They were a wall to keep himself from going back right now and killing the newly minted blood mage he'd sworn to protect.

He snarled at the very thought of Hawke, sweeping his sword out to catch another victim's stomach. He didn't want to believe that the man he'd mistakenly learned to care for would become the thing he hated the most, but what else was he to think? All he'd needed was a word otherwise from Hawke and he'd blindly believe—he'd turn and apologize right here and now. But when he'd voiced his suspicions, Hawke had said nothing in his defense. The mage hadn't even been able to look him in the eye, and so Fenris could only assume his theory to be correct.

The warrior fought furiously as his thoughts churned, the Qunari around him not quite enough of a challenge to keep his mind and memories from haunting him. All he could think about was how much he'd trusted Hawke, and the pain of his betrayal. He was hurt, and angry, and maybe he was grieving, because after this, he'd have truly lost Hawke. What remained of the mage would become a shell to house the demon, nothing more.

Fenris desperately wanted to leave. He didn't want to stay here and think about anything any longer. It wasn't like there was anything to keep him in Kirkwall. He could take nothing but his sword and go, right now. He could do what he should have all along—hunt Denarius down and end this charade one way or another.

Unfortunately, the Qunari had other plans, and out of some twisted sense of loyalty Fenris felt obligated to stop them. He didn't understand it himself. He owed nothing to a Blood Mage and never would, but he felt like he still owed something to the Hawke of his memories. It was a foolish sentiment, but that didn't stop him from fiddling with the red scarf still tied to his wrist in the quiet spaces between each fight. And it certainly didn't stop him from continuing on, cutting a bloody path ahead of not-Hawke and the others all the way to the Viscount's Keep.

He paused in his mindless slaughter only at the sight of far too many warriors idling on the Keep's steps. He was debating rushing in anyway, not sure whether he much minded his odds of survival, when the rest of the group finally caught up. Aveline and Varric led the way, flanking Hawke, while the Knight Commander and that damnable mage Orsino trailed behind.

"Broody, you waited for us!" Varric cheered jokingly as they came into range.

"Not out of choice, I assure you." Fenris groused back, tilting his head toward the stairs just around the corner. The dwarf frowned before following the motion. Fenris knew the moment Varric saw the sheer number of troops waiting for them, because his whole body tensed.

"Well then." Varric whistled as he turned back to Hawke and the others. "A plan would be good right about now." The words worked like a key-phrase; as soon as Varric had finished talking, Aveline, Orsino and Meredith all began squabbling amongst each other over the best course of action. They kept quiet enough, but it was only a matter of time before one of them got angry and drew the attention of the Qunari guards.

Fenris didn't care to pay any attention to their fight, audible or no. He was more interested in Hawke, drawn into himself, avoiding his eyes, staying close to the wall. The mage was pale and silent for reasons Fenris couldn't comprehend. If anything, he'd think Hawke would have more reason to speak and throw his weight around now that he had the demon-power to back it up. Was it simply that he feared Meredith's reaction to a blood mage? For some reason, he just didn't think that was the case. He couldn't make sense of it.

"…don't you think, Hawke?" At the sound of Varric's voice, the mage blinked out of his daze. His too-green eyes opened, and he looked at them all as if they were completely foreign to him—as if he'd just awoken from a dream.

"Hawke?" Aveline tested, her expression overly worried. She lay a gauntleted hand on his shoulder, and that was all it took. Hawke snapped back to reality the moment she touched him. He brushed her touch away with an exaggerated motion.

"I think we need to stop arguing before we draw any further attention." He drawled, his voice oddly hollow considering the situation. Orisno and Meredith both turned to look at him as he spoke, their full attention trained on him, as if he held all the answers. Fenris wondered if they'd be so quick to let him solve their problems should they know the truth. If he hadn't felt it might jeopardize the city, he'd tell them himself right now. "Orsino, if you provide us a distraction, will you be safe enough?"

"I'd certainly be safer doing that then following along with her su—"

"I didn't ask about her plan, I asked about yours." Hawke's dismissal left the head mage looking rather indignant. His mouth snapped shut with an audible clack. He stared in narrow-eyed indignation, blinking angrily at them all until his better sense returned.

"I will succeed, and not be caught, if that is what you mean." He growled, his posture still deferential despite his annoyance. Hawke continued on as if the moment of tension had never existed, or as if he hadn't noticed it. He seemed so oddly removed from it all, Fenris wasn't convinced he'd been paying attention.

"Then we use your suggestion. Distract as many as you can. Meredith, you can charge the remainder with us." She didn't look happy about it, but the Knight Commander nodded all the same. Fenris had never seen Hawke handle the city's most volitile couple so well—he wondered if his new blood magic were to blame for the way they listened to him now, but he hadn't noticed any being used. His lyrium markings usually burned when blood magic was in use—a side effect of his master's attempt to use him as a living battery, conduit to his own ill-gotten powers.

"On my mark," Hakwe was waiting for the bulk of the watch to be in front of the keep. He timed it to the exact second, then pushed Kirkwall's First Enchanter forward. "Go!" He hissed, and Orsino went. He stayed silent and hidden a few seconds so that the Qunari wouldn't get any ideas to check the place he'd come from, then came at them, shouting and wreathed in fire. His "distraction" killed a few of the slower guard, and definitely sent the bulk of them charging after him.

"Fool's going to get himself killed." Meredith spat beside him, her brow oddly furrowed. No one knew how to answer her, or why she'd said it. Hawke just shook his head, waited for the last guard chasing Orsino to turn the corner before throwing Meredith the next signal. A cool nod was all she needed before she and her entourage were charging headlong up the steps, sweeping the wounded and the few remaining guards away.

"Go on ahead, I'll be right behind you," He heard Hawke mutter to the remainder of their party. Fenris had expected the guard captain to go with Meredith's group, but she hadn't. Instead she and Varric were flanking Hawke on either side like some kind of honor guard. Unlike Orsino and Meredith, neither one paid Hawke's order any mind.

"Have you been able to cast another healing spell? I didn't see one when we were—" Aveline was fretting uncharacteristically, her hands flitting over Hawke's odd-looking bandage as if to check a wound. Hakwe stilled her efforts, his mouth twisted into a strange, bitter smile.

"No need to worry so. I really haven't needed it." Fenris snorted at the words, looking away before he could be any more disgusted. No indeed. The blood mage could just use the demon to heal himself now. He'd likely never have to heal anything again. Why bother when the blood was so useful?

Silence reigned, Fenris's skin crawled. When he turned back to the conversation he saw that everyone was staring him down. Hawke looked particularly pained, as if Fenris had actually wounded him. Was the demon wearing Hawke's face—trying to pull at his heart? Or was Hawke still in there, somewhere? Either way, the sight of that expression hurt. He wanted irrationally to fix it—to take back what he'd said and done before.

It must have been the demon, to make him feel this torn.

"Hawke, I know you're invincible, made of stone and all that," Varric began, the lines of worry in his face belying his joking words. "But it's not fair to the rest of us mortals if you're the one who gets to mop up. Can we keep pace with you? I've got bets running on our kill counts today!" Hawke allowed himself a quick, true smile before returning to his unusual blank stare.

"Thank you both for your concern, but I'll be fine. I have Fenris to keep me safe, after all." He made the statement as if it were a question. The elf rolled his eyes, striding forward with his sword drawn.

"For what good it does you, yes. You do unfortunately have me, for now."

"Fenris—"

"Broody—" Both Varric and Aveline tried speaking at once, voices matched with equal anger. He still didn't feel anything in the lyrium markings, but he felt even more now that he must have missed some spell. Hawke had to be commanding them somehow to make them this oddly protective. They cared for Hawke, certainly, but he was not made of spun glass and they knew it.

"So you see, you mother hens can rest. I am safe," the mage spoke wearily, something odd moving behind his eyes. "I need you to make certain that it will continue to be safe up ahead. Please, listen to me and go. We are running out of time." The knight and the rogue shared an odd look of frustration before turning to do as they were bid.

"Stay in sight, or I'll come find you," Aveline snapped as her final retort, her grip too tight as she pulled her sword once more from its sheath. Hawke waited until they were out of earshot before he looked back to Fenris. He held his staff in front of his chest, clutching it almost protectively.

"I was lying about having you to protect me. I know you'd sooner kill me right now." Hawke sounded certain, but his body language screamed out his insecurities. Whether it was Hawke or the demon in control now, he couldn't say, but the emotions and the actions seemed too natural, too human to be either of them. Hawke had always hid his emotions behind a quick wit and an irritating smirk.

"Unfortunately necessity denies me that pleasure." Fenris snarled, hefting his sword once more to step forward. He would not be left behind for the confrontation with the Arishok. He needed to protect the remainder of their group if nothing else. Then, after… he could worry about the thing living in Hawke's body. He half hoped the abomination wouldn't follow—would run off and give Fenris reprieve from the awful nightmare of knowing the truth, but it wasn't so. Hawke followed as Fenris stormed, trailing just behind.

"You could leave if you wanted." The mage mused after they'd trekked just a few feet. They marched forward at a pace just a little too quick for Hawke—he kept tripping and leaning on his staff. Perhaps the demon wasn't used to human limbs yet.

"No, I could not. Someone has to protect the others from your mistake." Hawke stumbled again. Fenris was too angry and hurt to worry about him. This was all probably an act put on by the demon anyway to win his sympathies.

"Protect them from me, you mean." Hawke's voice sounded so broken… it killed Fenris to hear that tone, which only made him angrier. He didn't know why the thing was bothering to keep this up anymore. Or whether Hakwe was trying to play him for a fool or…

It was so frustrating just to hear Hawke's voice. It sounded like him. It emoted like him. He didn't know whether Hawke was in control at all, or whether the demon had taken firm hold of his existence. It was impossible to tell, by the point the mage had accepted the fiend into their life. And the doubt—whether Hawke was sincere or whether the demon was playing him for a fool, it ached terribly. Because if he couldn't tell now, how could he ever tell? What if it had all been a lie from the beginning? What if Hawke had never cared about him at all—never…

He couldn't do this now.

"You know Fenris, I didn't—I never actually…" Hawke trailed off before he could finish, his voice oddly quiet. The elf growled, his anger mounting.

"Never thought about what you were doing? Never realized what the consequences for your actions would be? Never cared?" His last word echoed out into the entryway of the Keep. They'd made it past the front door, and could see the path before them. Meredith, Aveline and Varric were leaving them hardly a trail of wounded and stragglers to eliminate.

"If you would just let me explain—"

"There is no explanation for what you've done that can satisfy me." Blood magic had no excuse, and no good end. He could hate Hawke for ruining everything this way. It was only his misguided love of the man that kept him from picking up his sword and slaying the mage here and now, before he could do any real damage.

"So be it." Hawke whispered, almost too low to hear. Fenris glanced at him, only to find that the abomination had resumed his walk. The warrior-elf felt somehow that he'd ruined something permanently—as if Hawke were speaking of something more than their argument now. He might have spent more time pondering the oddness of it all if they hadn't been so close to the enemy and battle. Instead he'd been forced to turn his attention to fighting, slitting the throats of those few left behind, occasionally actually having to focus on combat as reinforcements or patrolling units the others had missed came through.

They caught up to the rest of the group just outside the inner doors of the keep, where Fenris presumed the Arishok was waiting. As talkative as the mage had been before, Hawke said nothing more to him. Whether that meant this whole talk had been a failed ploy of the demon, or whether Hawke was legitimately angry with him, he could not say. He should have appreciated the silence, but somehow it just made him nervous. He could feel it—Hawke was planning something, and he wasn't going to like it.

"Great to see you both in one piece!" Varric was the first to greet them, saluting with a bundle of bolts in hand as he prepped Bianca for another volley. "Though I admit Aveline and I were taking bets on which one of you would kill the other first." Fenris shook his head in annoyance, and turned back to the fight. Aveline was in too deep, surrounded by too many Qunari for one fighter. Meredith should have been here to help, but she was instead suspiciously absent. He charged in, Lyrium markings flaring and burning across his skin. The pain had become so normal to him now that he scarcely felt it.

The rhythm of battle was easy to fall back into, and before he knew what had happened, he was standing at the final door, wiping the blood from his blade.

"Hawke, are you all right?" Aveline had made her way to the mage, and was fretting over him all over again. He knew the woman could be a mother hen, but this was growing ridiculous. The fool was a blood mage—he could easily heal any hurt as long as it didn't kill him instantly.

"I'm fine. Did the Knight-Commander suddenly turn chicken and flee?" Hawke sounded oddly tired. Fenris had to close his eyes, block the sympathy and confusion from his mind. He would need to be focused for the next fight. And after this was over and everyone was safe, he could leave. He could get away, start running again, forget about the demon he may or may not still be in love with…

"She went down the stair to the guard's quarters. They'd found a large number of Qunari stationed there. I wanted to go with—to see if my men were still fighting but…" The conversation seemed to be happening around him like a dream. He heard Aveline speaking, but he couldn't process her words. He was too trained on the damned mage, too tuned to Hawke, waiting for his next word, wondering whether it was true or no, unsure of himself. He had the strength to wonder whether the abomination had put him under spell, but his tattoos still did not burn. He knew this would happen—he knew he should have found a way to keep his distance.

"Don't worry, Aveline. The guards are used to dealing with you. I'm sure they can handle a few Qunari." Hawke joked, trying to inject his usual glibness to the situation, but he sounded weary—run ragged.

"Thanks. You always know just what to say."

"That's me, charming to the last."

"Are we finished?" Fenris groused, tired of this charade. He wanted this over so that he could run with no regrets. Hakwe met his eyes just for a moment, then turned the handle of the door. He strode through without care and without looking back, leaving the rest of the group to scramble behind him. Fenris had scarcely a moment to register what was going on, to realize that it was the Viscount's head rolling at their feet, before the Arishok was upon them.

Hawke bandied about with the large Qunari, drawing upon every ounce of confidence and understanding he had. On any other day, he'd have been proud. The mage spoke of reality, with narry a joke to be heard. They talked of Kirkwall's fate—of Isabella and what she'd done. It meant nothing. Fenris knew as well as they all did what this was going to come down to in the end.

"I am sorry for my companion's actions. They were her own, but she is one of mine. That being the case, I cannot allow you to harm her, or this city."

"It is too late for that, Basalit-an. The book must be returned to us—and the price for its removal paid." Whether or not the demon was in control, Hawke was still fighting for the best interests of this city. Fenris could… respect that. For the sake of who Hawke used to be if nothing else. He closed his eyes, found the words he needed. He didn't speak Qunari well, but he knew enough to see this through. The title of Basalit-an was a boon, as much as Hawke might not deserve it now. Fenris failed to see anything honorable in what he'd allowed himself to become.

"Arishacost. Qun anan etratol. Hawke is Basalit-an by your own admission. He has the right to challenge you." The Arishok stared him down, eyes narrowed. For a moment, he thought it might not work, but soon that great horned head was nodding his way.

"What say you, Hawke? Do you agree to a duel?" He didn't have to pay attention to the terms to know what they would be. The Qun demanded nothing if not honor in all things—this was the best course. The one with the least chance to lead to war.

"Well?" The Arishok prompted once more after everything had been sufficiently explained. Hawke actually looked as if he were debating his answer.

"Hawke, don't do this." Aveline pleaded quietly on the mage's left. Fenris didn't know what she was thinking. This was the least destructive outcome. This was the path that Hawke—at least the Hawke he thought he knew—would want to follow. He'd seen Hakwe fight—mage or no, the man was a terror. He could best the Arishok easily. Even if he couldn't… well he was a blood mage now, wasn't he? He'd find a way. There were few things in the world stronger than a demon-backed mage. And Hawke had been ridiculously strong to begin with.
"I see no reason not to," was the man's confusing answer. Even more confusing that he looked to Fenris as he spoke.
"Hawke!" Aveline sounded suddenly frantic, but she didn't move. She knew she could do nothing to stop this.`
"I accept your offer. We duel to the death." A thrill of unease trembled through him at the words. As furious as he was with Hawke, it should not have hurt so to entertain thoughts of his demise. Still, the idea of death hung in the air like a bad omen, like an ill spirit that came when its name was mentioned.
"Very well." They each moved to their respective places. Hawke and the Arishok made their meager preparations for the duel before taking a stance at opposite ends of the foyer. The honor guard took the opportunity to give their leader a respectful distance from the fight without being out of reach completely. They were fully ready to forgo the duel and spring the attack, should any hostage or companion try anything odd. Fenris didn't think they would. Everyone here knew the stakes, after all. He cast his gaze about, searching for Aveline and Varric. The Guard Captain had taken a place at Fenris's side, alternating between worrying in Hawke's direction, and glaring death at the warrior who'd gotten him into this. Varric was nowhere to be seen.

"Did the Dwarf slip out?" He asked pointlessly, knowing the answer. Hopefully he'd left and he hadn't just decided to hide in the shadows and take a good shot if it arose. That would lead to war for certain. Pity though—perhaps if he saw a really powerful blood mage in action, he'd understand why they were so dangerous. Aveline snarled, placing her shield at its place on her back with angered, jerky motions.

"Shut up and watch, elf. If your foolishness gets him killed, I would see that you remember it."

"Hawke was never a fragile trinket. Now he will be even less so, knowing what he has become…" He growled, brow furrowing. He didn't want to speak the truth aloud, call it for what it really was. The words seemed too bitter to say. Knowing Merrill was a blood mage was one thing—he'd never cared for her, never really allowed her close. Besides, she wasn't the type that relied fully on the demon and its deal yet. She couldn't close her wounds instantly with a small sacrifice. As much as it pained him to say it, she wasn't as much of a threat. "Why are you coddling him so?"

"Are you so blinded by your hatred of Denarius that you cannot see the truth?" Her words were meant to hurt, and his emotions were running high. He felt the lyrium in his skin burn, knew it was flashing with his anger.

"Do not speak of Denarius to me," he growled, wondering why he couldn't just tear out her throat and be done with it. She was probably under Hawke's thrall anyway. Maybe he'd cast the spell before Fenris found them.

"Begin!" One of the Qunari shouted. Aveline's attention snapped to the battlefield, and Fenris's reluctantly followed.
Hawke and the Arishok spent what seemed like forever just staring each other down. Neither moved, both waiting for an opening to begin. Then, as if there had been some unseen signal, they flew at each other at the same time. The Arishok began the fight with a charging blow that seemed it would surely cut any mage in two, but Hawke wasn't called one of the best mages in Thedas for nothing. Just before the Arishok could reach him, he summoned a blinding gout of flame. To the Qunari's credit, the heat did not give him pause. He followed through with his attack, letting the scorching force pass over him. It seemed to have little effect, but damage was not its intended purpose. The flames were bright—they gave Hawke enough cover to dodge safely.

"You look a bit warm, let me cool you off!" Hawke punctuated his useless jibe with a terrible wave of ice. It leapt, sharp and unforgiving from the earth in a half circle. At least a few of the spikes were close enough to spear the Qunari through, but he was better than that. He blocked the points with his blade, shattered enough of the ice with a cross-blow to attempt another attack on Hawke. He swept his huge sword forward in a lunge, made to run Hawke through with unnatural strength.

Hawke met the oncoming blow with a mad grin, his too-green eyes alight with magic and love of battle. It seemed as if he were going to allow the blade to hit, but Fenris knew better. He'd seen the mage do this before. It had horrified him to see, the first few times, but now he was used to it. He refused to acknowledge the tiny bit of worry still eating away at him, watching that huge blade come closer and closer with Hawke looking like he couldn't care less. At the last second, Hawke blasted his opponent with force magic, as Fenris knew he would. The Arishok and his blade both were sent hurling in the opposite direction, but not before scoring a decent slice at Hawke's shoulder. Unusual for injury to happen with this particular play—Hawke usually used the earth as armor for protection when he faced down an enemy blade this way.

"When did he turn his shield off?" He murmured to Aveline as the fight continued. It had become an odd game of ragdoll now. The Arishok would charge, and Hawke would meet him with a push or a pull at the last second, just barely dancing out of the way.

"He hasn't been using it for a while. He doesn't have the energy to keep it going," Aveline gritted back without tearing her eyes from the fighters in the center of the ring. Fenris frowned. No, that couldn't be right. He watched the Qunari score another minor hit, this time to Hawke's outer right thigh, as Hawke forced him to the ground.

Ah, so that was it. Hawke was moving just a bit too slow—it was a trick he'd seen many blood mages employ. Control the flow of battle just enough, allow the perfect amount of spilt blood and the mage could use what fell to the floor to spring a trap on his opponent. Armor would just make guiding the Qunari's blows more difficult than it had to be. That must have been Hawke's plan—must have been why he was allowing the Arishok far too much ground and sparing only a few blasts of frost and flame edgewise. He must have been leading his opponent, waiting for the enemy to get cocky and then he'd put his plan into motion at the last second. He'd seen it many, many times before in Tevinter.

The fight dragged on. And on. Hakwe only seemed to accumulate more nicks and cuts, his spells hitting with much less frequency. He was barely managing to keep out of the way of mortal blows by now. He was covered in a multitude of trickling wounds, blood running in rivulets and spatters to the floor wherever Hawke stepped. Though things looked grim, he wasn't the only combatant looking worse for wear; Hawke had made the Arishok fight for every inch gained. His thick, grey skin was riddled with oddly charred rents and tears, his own blood falling to mix with Hawke's. If the mage were looking for an opportunity to work some real blood magic, he had it. There were perfect blood mage's traps laid everywhere—Hawke's blood on the floor in the spiraling patterns they'd twisted through as they fought, Hawke's blood tracing the length of the enemy's weapon, Hawke's blood painting the enemy's body… but Fenris felt not a spark of demonic magic. His lyrium markings twinged with the lingering echo of every spell Hawke used, just as they always did, but he had not once felt the aching, burning pain that signified demonic energy.

The Arishok roared, chest heaving with his own breath, eyes wild. Both fighters seemed to be nearing the end of their abilities. Hawke tried throwing in a jet of cold while the Qunari shouted, trying to take advantage of the huge warrior's distraction. Fenris felt the spell fail before he saw it. Threads of magic wove themselves together at Hawke's hands, and the echo danced over his lyrium-veined skin. The chill of this particular spell was familiar, if uncomfortable. He knew the way it felt for Hawke to complete it, knew that after enemies were hit it would be easier to shatter them, should charge them now—but then the weave fell apart. The magic just… stopped, as if it had been choked. Frost traveled sluggishly in a few wisps from Hawke's open palms, but nothing more happened.

Fenris didn't understand. There was no way, demon or no, that Hawke would have mis-calculated the amount of energy he'd need to spring a trap. He should have used it already. And if it were true that was really magically exhausted, then all the more reason to use the resource available and make his wounds useful. Any competent blood mage should be able to channel a spell easily with the stuff clinging to Hawke's clothing alone. Which brought the elf to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe… Fear and doubt sank slowly into his thoughts, throbbing through him with a dull ache far more uncomfortable than his markings ever could be. Did that mean, there really was no demon? Did that mean he'd consigned Hawke to this, stupidly wished death upon him for no real reason at all? His breathing sped, heart in his throat. He couldn't let himself believe that. Not if—

The Arishok's laughter interrupted his postulations, his booming voice ringing through the make-shift coliseum.

"You are out of time, Saarebas Basra," he allowed himself the small measure of gloating as he slowly raised his sword one more time, throwing all his might behind a waist-level swing. Hawke had to throw himself out of the way to avoid the huge blade. He wound up half-sprawled on the floor, an easy target. The Arishok raised his sword above his head to ready a two-handed stabbing ark. Hawke would be speared to the floor if he didn't do something.

Hawke was capable of ridiculously acrobatic moves, when he felt like it. He'd seen the man do nearly idiotic lunges or flips to find his way back to his feet after a fall or a tackle. But he didn't seem able to manage any of that now. He was slowly attempting to get up, his arms shaking. Despite his niggling self-doubt, Fenris didn't understand. Even with the injuries and the exhaustion, he'd never seen the mage move this slow. Had one of those cuts been more vital than he'd first believed?

"Hawke, move!" Aveline shouted beside him, her throat straining visibly under the volume she'd employed. Her voice seemed to give him strength. Hawke rolled away from the fatal stab at the last second. He used the opportunity granted while the Arishok was busy pulling his blade out of the granite floor to scrabble to his feet.

"Got a few minutes left yet, seems like, Arishok." Hawke's cheery teasing had a lot less effect than usual. He was too obviously flagging. The mage was backed up against the wall to the left of the stair now, using it and his staff to keep himself upright. He was standing leant to one side, brow furrowed in pain as he seemed to hunch around something at the base of his chest.

The Qunari hadn't managed a wound to that side yet, had he? Sure a cut to Hawke's frame here or there, but he'd managed to keep his vital areas protected. Was it an act, or had Hawke…

Had Hawke been injured before hand?

"Vanhedris!" Fenris cursed, finally putting the pieces of the puzzle together. It was no wonder Varric and Aveline had been acting as they had—he'd been such a fool. He was so ready to believe the worst that he'd sent an injured mage to fight the most powerful being in the city. Damn it all. If Hawke didn't come out of this he didn't know what he would do.

"Come on, big guy. One last time," Hawke goaded. His grip on his weapon was loose, right arm almost shaking with the effort of holding it, but his eyes were still alight with some kind of plan. Hawke straightened up, stood on his own power and stared his opponent down. He pointed his staff to the ground, let his free arm dangle at his side as if he'd given up...

No, Fenris knew these motions, this body language. Hawke was going to try his force magic ploy again. But if he was really so exhausted he couldn't manage a frost spell… If he couldn't throw the Arishok, he'd be killed. And even if he did manage, after that final spell he'd be powerless to do any damage. He'd be forced to keep just ahead of the Qunari's blade until fatigue finally got him killed.

"Idiot! Don't you dare!" He found himself shouting, his hands clenched to painful, gauntleted fists. Hawke seemed to hear him. Fenris caught his eye, just for a moment as the Arishok readied his last charge. There was understanding in Hawke's green gaze, forgiveness… But their connection ended too quickly for Fenris to figure out what Hawke was trying to say. The Qunari came closer with each second, sword carried like a makeshift lance. He was aiming to spear Hawke's heart this time, and there was no chance he would miss. Hawke watched his opponent come with a grin on his face, threw his hands up at the last second and bathed the room one more time in blinding white blue light.

Fenris nearly sighed in relief when he felt the familiar twanging pressure of Hawke's force magic ringing through his markings like a cathedral bell. He'd been terrified for that single moment that Hawke had already hit the bottom of his reserve and that he wouldn't have enough strength for another push spell. But everything was fine. He'd felt the Hawke's magic pull stronger than it ever had, and the mage would….

Wait.

"No!"He heard Aveline shout beside him, her voice a ragged, straining sound. He looked back to Hawke once the light was no longer brighter than the sun and found the reason for her cry. Hawke had used force magic to be certain, but it was not a push that he'd employed. He'd pulled the Qunari closer, let the sword spear him and follow straight through to the wall.

"Gotcha," Hawke pronounced, still smiling despite the pain he was clearly in. He reached up with his free hand and blasted the shocked Arishok with a close range, high-energy burst of cold, completely freezing the Qunari in place.

Silence reigned. Not a soul in the room knew quite how to process what had just happened. Was the match over? Certainly it seemed both combatants could do no more. Hawke had chosen to suffer a grievous wound. The Arishok's blade was buried hilt-deep in the space below Hawke's ribs. The force pull must have knocked its trajectory somewhat—there was no doubt that the Arishok had been aiming for an instant death. By some miracle the blade seemed to have missed his spine, but it was ridiculously broad and forever long. Removing it might kill Hawke if its tearing through his gut didn't.

"Stupid, stupid mage," Fenris chanted beneath his breath, his throat tight and aching. He knew why Hawke had done it. Hawke had needed the Arishok to stay at close range. He was too low on power to cast any spell with a decent range, especially knowing that at a distance there was a good chance he'd miss anyway. He'd yanked the Arishok's sword arm straight into the wall with himself as a go between just to gain tactical advantage… The thought was maddening—that Hawke was so stupidly selfless—Fenris could just strangle him for it.

"Hawke!" Aveline shouted beside him, glancing at the Qunari surrounding them as if she was considering pushing past. The mage was too focused on his frozen opponent to notice her. He was still staring the Arishok down, brow furrowed. Fenris's heart clenched, pulse quickening. This wasn't over yet. Something more was coming, he could feel it. Hawke was already so near to death—he didn't know what more the man could manage.

Sure enough, the room soon began to echo with the cracking of ice. It seemed the Arishok would not be stopped by such a simple ploy. His muscles shifted under the frost, strange eyes roving. Hawke didn't seem surprised. He let his staff roll from his finger tips to clatter against the floor. With great effort, he lifted his right arm just a bit higher until he could rest his palm against the Arishok's brow just above his eyes. Hawke's whole body was trembling with exhaustion and pain by now. Fenris entertained the macabre thought that the sword in the wall was the only thing keeping the mage standing.

"S-sorry," Hawke stuttered, his voice sounding frighteningly wet. "I kinda liked you. Seems like a cheap way to end it." The Qunari's left hand shattered out of the ice on the last word. He reached back in an awkward motion, unable to employ the rest of his frozen muscles. Just as he was about to punch Hawke down the blade and into the wall, the mage sent a powerful bolt of lightning coursing through his skull. The electricity used Hawke's ice as a conductor, found all the soft places in the Arishok's hard form and fried him from within. At last, the battle was over. The Arishok fell to the floor still half-encased in ice.

No one cheered, nor did the remaining Qunari warriors seem to know how to react. The collective crowd appeared to be in a sort of shock.

"Finally," Aveline hissed, pushing her way passed a blankly staring guard. Fenris followed, his mind reeling with the things he'd just seen. He didn't know how to process it just yet, but he needed to get to Hawke. He had to make this right somehow. The mage didn't notice their approach. He'd gone still and focused, his breathing slowly evening out, both hands held awkwardly palm up. Fenris knew that pose. He'd seen it too many times to count. This was… but surely Hawke wasn't going to—

"Hawke, don't—" Aveline's shouted warning came too late. Hawke managed one last bit of force magic and tore the blade from the wall and himself, flinging it across the room before friend or foe could put a stop to it. The Captain of the Guard faltered in her step, breath catching in her throat. Blood—far, far too much blood fell to the floor in the sword's wake. Fenris doubled his speed. Stupid, idiot mage! Did he want to kill himself faster?

Hawke did not fall immediately as he should have. Some mindless determination within pushed him onward. He took a few shuttering, shaking steps to the nearest Qunari and stared defiantly up.

"I have bested your Arishok in a duel. Honor your terms." He bit out the words, ignoring the blood that began to trickle from the corners of his lips. He waited until he received a silent nod in return, until all the Qunari were turned and marching toward the door, before he finally allowed himself to waver. Fenris skidded to a stop at Hawke's side just in time to catch him. Blood was pooling far too swiftly at their feet. Barring some miracle, Hawke would be dead in minutes. He had to put a stop to it somehow. Mind racing, Fenris lowered them both to the ground.

"Every citizen here is to go straight home by order of the guard!" Aveline was shouting over the din of excited hostages, keeping them from getting close to Hawke. "Order will soon be restored, and I will personally arrest any who failed to heed me now." She truly was terrifying. It was a testament to her strength just how many listened. A few men lingered, but began walking as soon as Aveline took a step in their direction.

She was a terror to be certain, but Fenris ignored her with ease. It was hard to look at anything other than Hawke. The mage was gasping for breath in his arms, his brow damp with sweat. Fenris took stock of the gaping hole in Hawke's torso—too sodden and messy for him to really get an idea of the damage. He shifted as gently as he could, so that he was cradling Hawke with his left arm, tried putting pressure to the wound with his right. It didn't matter. The damned thing was just too huge—more blood bubbled up around his palm when he pressed down.

"Oh, for the love of the maker… don't do that." Hawke moaned, his voice weak and strained. Fenris supposed he shouldn't have been surprised the man was still conscious.

"Damn you, Hawke," He choked, his thoughts jumbling together so that he couldn't sort out the right thing to say. He wanted to curse the mage for leading him to believe as he had. He wanted to beg the maker or anyone who would listen to keep this man alive. He wanted to apologize for being such a fool… but pride and pragmatism got in the way. He grasped Hawke's left wrist with his free hand, pulled the mage's palm to hover over his ridiculous wound. Hawke winced at the movement, arm muscles twitching beneath Fenris's grip.

"Come on, heal it," Fenris goaded. Hake had had enough power left to tear the sword out of his own stomach like an idiot. Surely he could scrape up enough to keep himself alive.

"—can't. Not enough—" Deep down, he'd expected as much. He didn't care. He pressed harder into Hawke's wrist, hoping the distraction of his touch would keep the man lucid for just long enough.

"If you can waste your energy throwing swords about the room you can save your own damn life." Fenris's voice was straining, thick with tears he refused to allow to fall. Now was not the time.

"Too tired," he mumbled. "Force is easy. Healing is hard." Hawke sounded oddly whiny and not a little bit delirious.

"He's got nothing left Fenris, just keep him awake for now. Varric went to get Anders." Aveline marched her way back to them once she felt the hostage situation had been suitably dealt with. She let out something of a gasp when she caught sight of the state Hawke was in. "Andraste's flaming tits! Hawke, I don't know what the hell you were thinking but—Maker's breath I'm going to kill you if you don't die first." She was visibly nervous now, her concern eating away at her cool, no-fuss demeanor. Fenris figured that the guardswoman had seen the wound and made the same prognosis as he—Hawke would be gone before that maker-damned mage had a chance to show his face.

"Andraste's…tits?" Hawke tried to laugh, but only wound up throwing himself into a coughing fit. Fenris tried to elevate him a bit higher without hurting him further. "Good to see," another choking gasp. "I wore off on you." Neither warrior was listening to Hawke now. They were too wrapped up in the sheer horror of the situation, reality slowly bearing down on their shoulders. Aveline spared a glance for the door, fidgeting nervously with her armor.

"Where is that blasted dwarf." She growled. Her breath hitched on the last word, barely containing a frustrated sob. "This isn't going to work. He's taking too long…" She straightened, paced back and forth for a few seconds. The guardswoman pinched the bridge of her nose just for one moment, as if to stave off a migrane. And then, just like that, she was back to the cool-headed commander he was more used to seeing. "Fenris, the guard just recently impounded a lyrium stash that I hadn't turned over to Meredith yet. I'll go get it and… and we'll pour lyrium on Hakwe until he heals his goddamned self if Anders isn't here yet." She'd started dashing for the door before she was finished speaking, so that she had to shout back to him at the end. "Don't let Hawke fall asleep!" She called behind herself, just as the door slammed shut behind her.

"…Should have told her…not to bother." Hawke smiled oddly, as if he'd made some joke. Something twisted sharply within Fenris to hear it like that. No, he didn't want Hawke to just… accept this. He wasn't going to let the mage go. He had so much to ask the idiot, so much to make up for. He—

If… if lyrium was what Hawke needed right now, Fenris knew one way to get it to him. He hated it, but he owed Hawke his help now. At the very least he owed him that. And… aside from feeling like he'd incurred an even greater debt, he honestly just didn't want to lose Hawke.

"Alright… Alright." Fenris murmured, nervous as he shifted Hawke carefully to lean against his chest. He needed his right hand to remove the gauntlet from his left, metal clinking carelessly to the floor. He'd hated it every time Denarius tried this. Having a mage tap into the lyrium running through his skin hurt nearly the same as the ritual that had given them to him to begin with. His thoughts and memories would be thrown back to that moment in time, every nerve burning in agony so hot that he couldn't remember anything aside from the pain. And when it was over, he would still feel the mage's touch, lingering somewhere inside his very being. He really, really didn't want to do this but… living in a world without Hawke would ache far worse than any pain his markings could bring him. He realized that, at least.

Any time this had happened before, it had always been at Denarius's initiation. He didn't know how to start the connection on his own, or he would. Instead, he had to thread Hawke's hand in his, and pray. He pressed the veins of lyrium in the pads of his fingers to Hawke's palm, sending a burst of energy through them to try to entice the mage.

"Fenris, what…?"

"You know what lyrium is, I'm certain," he covered his nervousness with bluster and sharp edges. He felt raw, too exposed, as if losing that one piece of armor had bared him to the world. "Take the lyrium and heal what you can." The elven warrior demanded, heartbeat quickening. He closed his eyes and waited for the pain.

Seconds ticked by… the pain didn't come. "Do you understand, Hawke? You need to—"

"No, I won't." His voice was firm. Fenris dared to open his eyes, saw that the fool was glaring stubbornly up at him, his expression clear and unclouded. It was obvious Hawke was fighting just to keep his eyes open. His body had stopped trembling by now—conserving what energy it could. He'd be finished bleeding out very quickly now. Why was he refusing the only thing that Fenris could do to save him? The frustration was nearly overwhelming.

"Hawke, please," His control was slipping, voice cracking and hurt. "Please just take what you need. Save your maker-damned life, please."

"I won't hurt you." Hawke's tone was pure steel, clear despite the ominous bubbling that accompanied it. He tried to fight against Fenris's touch, but his body was too weak to move on his own. "I am not Denarius." Fenris winced at the words, Biting his cheek to stifle the sounds that he was afraid might escape. He knew that. Maker, he knew that now. Hawke wasn't, and never would be Denarius. He was too stupidly noble to make a deal with a demon, too good to take help when offered. How could he have forgotten, even momentarily? He'd let this hatred within get the best of him. It was maddening. And now that hatred may have gotten Hawke killed.

No. He would not allow it!

"Hawke, listen to me and take what you need to heal yourself. You can be foolishly noble about it when you're not about to die." He concentrated, fed more energy to the markings until he burned like a beacon in the dimly-lit chamber. His nerves protested the action, sensation burning along every lyrium vein like fire, but he was used to it. It didn't matter. Life without this foolish mage would be so much more painful. Any hurt he could endure would be worth it if he could somehow reverse this.

Hawke gasped to feel the lyrium blazing to life against him. Denarius had always teased him that the sensation was… pleasant for a mage. It had always made him distinctly uncomfortable to think about, but Fenris wasn't concerned about that now. If he could just feed enough of himself through, make it tempting enough maybe the mage's survival instincts would kick in and he would draw without thinking. "Please," Fenris was too close to begging, a complete wreck inside. "Please, Hawke."

"Fenris," His head lolled back, making it so he could just manage to make eye contact with the elf from his shoulder. "Thanks, for staying…. I'm glad I had you." His former steel was fading. He couldn't keep his eyes open, distant smile drifting across his face.

"Hawke, don't do this to me. Don't you dare go!" A sob finally managed to slip past his control, making his voice crack and his eyes burn. The mage just hummed, a dead weight against his shoulder. Slowly, he managed to move his hand away from the temptation of Fenris's lyrium. With a pang of something bittersweet, he realized Hawke's fingers now rested on the cloth looped about his wrist.

"Hey," He mumbled, only audible because Hawke was so close. They didn't have long. Fenris's vision swam. There were so many things he wanted to say, but he couldn't find the words. "…Love you." Hawke's soft, murmured words nearly broke Fenris's heart. He flinched, as if he'd been physically hit. He couldn't say it back. Not when he'd been so blind. He didn't deserve to.

"I," The elf choked, his arms rising to curl around the body against his chest. "Hawke please don't go," he forced his markings to flash just one last time, praying to the maker for his mage to give in. Hawke didn't seem to notice at all this time. "Hawke!" he shouted the name as if it were a command, trying to demand the mage into consciousness. His heart slipping, tears finally streaming down his face, he rocked back and forth on the floor of the Viscount's chamber. He kept Hawke wrapped in a mockery of an embrace, resting against his shoulder. The mage's life slipped further and further away with each second. Fenris could feel the breaths against his neck, tiny pathetic puffs of air that grew weaker and weaker by the moment. He knew better than to foolishly hope for any miracle now. He'd failed. Hawke was… dying. Would be dead soon. He stayed like that for he didn't know how long, listening to Hawke slowly, slowly bleed out, unable to do anything about it.

"I'm sorry," Fenris sobbed to the empty air, too late now. He was too late for a great many things. He wasn't certain which one, exactly he was apologizing for.

"Well that's good to hear," he killed the urge to reach for his weapon. Normally the voice out of nowhere would have gotten Varric at least a reflexive punch, but his self-preservation instincts were running dangerously low at the moment.

"Oh, maker that's a lot of blood." Anders was a good deal closer to the entrance of the room than Varric. The dwarf must have been worried, for all that it mattered. "Move over, Fenris. I've got to see to him." The bond shouted as he hurried quickly through the chasm of a room. Fenris felt his blood boil. Anders hadn't been here. Hadn't had to watch that terrifying fight, or watch Hawke slowly slip away. He hadn't had to bear the goodbyes, to sit and wait and pray for help and feel so damned helpless. And yet, he stormed into the room and made his demands as if he could not possibly be denied.

"You are too late," Fenris forced the words from between gritted teeth, his grip tightening protectively around his charge.

"Let me be the judge of that." The blond demanded. He knelt on Fenris's left, knocking flecks of Hawke's blood and the sharp metal of Fenris's gauntlet aside in his haste. Without preamble, he reached for Hawke. Fenris knocked his hand away with a near feral growl.

"So help me, Elf. If Hawke dies because you hated Blondie too much to let him do the only thing that might save his life, I will kill you, hunt you down in whatever afterlife you believe in, and kill you again." His eyes flicked to Varric, then down to Hawke. He'd seen magic do strange and terrible things, but never had he seen it save a person so far gone. Hawke was barely still there. Fenris could only just feel the feather-light touch of moving air against his collar. He wasn't convinced that he was hallucinating the sensation.

"Fenris, move," Anders commanded, temporarily losing control of himself so that Justice shone brilliantly through him, his voice taking on that strange otherworldly tone.

Fenris absolutely hated this with every fiber of his being. He wanted to gut the abomination here and now. He wanted to scream, to tell them both that they'd been far too slow. He wanted to take all this agonizing guilt and sorrow inside and use it as a weapon against the world so that it couldn't be used against him any longer. But more than anything, he wanted to keep Hawke with him, just a little longer. And if Anders could provide the possibility, even the hope of possibility for that reality… He straightened his posture, made it so that he was supporting Hawke instead of hiding him away from the world. He looked Anders in the eye and swallowed every ounce of pride he'd ever had.

"Please, save him."