AN: The rules for diamondback as I've written them here are a mixture of lotusflwr's Wicked Grace instructions, a card game by the same name from a different canon universe (Swords of Cerebus), and bits I've completely made up. I still have no idea how to play diamondback, and even if I did, I suspect I'd be terrible at it.

-.-

Spire

-.-

Chapter Two

-.-.-

Love? Do I love? I walk
Within the brilliance of another's thought,
As in a glory. I was dark before,
As Venus' chapel in the black of night:
But there was something holy in the darkness,
Softer and not so thick as other where;
And as rich moonlight may be to the blind,
Unconsciously consoling. Then love came,
Like the out-bursting of a trodden star.

—The Second Brother, Thomas Lovell Beddoes

-.-.-

"No, Isabela!"

"Come on, Hawke! Don't be so stingy."

"Don't be so greedy! Stop asking!"

Isabela huffs, her lip poking out in a full-blown pout. "It's my ship. I should have the right to decide where people sleep."

"You do. Up until you suggest Fenris stay in the captain's quarters to save space."

"It's a matter of convenience. I'd hate for you to feel cramped in your very tiny, very uncomfortable berth."

Hawke scoffs, skirting around a pair of arguing dockhands before pushing open the door to the Hanged Man. Warm torchlight spills out into the darkened streets, and once again Hawke marvels that the nearly tangible scent of alcohol hanging in the air still hasn't caused the place to burst into flame. "I've seen those berths, Isabela, and they're hardly tiny. You just want to make sure you don't miss anything—exciting."

Isabela heaves a morose sigh. "There should not be sex happening on my ship that I'm not a part of."

"Sorry," Hawke says without a trace of repentance, and the pair of them weaves their way through the drunken crowd to Varric's suite.

Everyone else is already here, and Hawke thumps her two bottles of wine in the center of Varric's enormous table to general cheers and applause. It had been Merrill's idea, this sort of going-away party, and even though Hawke hopes to be back from this unwelcome journey in little more than two months she'd liked the idea far too much to turn it down. Isabela saunters off to the opposite end of the table where the alcohol has congregated near a hearty card game, neatly dodging an inexplicable boot arcing through the air; a moment later, Anders emerges from the crush of people with ruffled feathers and an angry shout thrown over his shoulder at the boot-thrower, who from this angle might be either Aveline or a flash of white hair—Fenris?—and rousing laughter breaks out at Ander's indignation.

"Hawke!" Varric waves at her from the side of the room behind Anders's now-empty seat on the bench, and Hawke ducks under Norah's precarious tray of glasses to reach him. "Glad you made it. I was starting to think Rivaini'd had her way with you after all."

"Sorry. She kept rejecting vintages for having the wrong body." Hawke grins, accepting the glass of unidentifiable liquor he offers. "Besides, you know I never miss an opportunity to see Sebastian get drunk."

"He's halfway there already," Varric says, and throws a thumb over his shoulder where Sebastian is looking decidedly off-balance as he argues with Merrill. Merrill herself seems more heated than usual, her hands flying wildly in the air, and between his brogue and her fluid accent Hawke can't make out a single word.

She tastes the alcohol Varric has given her and coughs at the burn. "What are they arguing about?"

"Damned if I know. Ten minutes ago it was the efficacy of faith as a deterrent to blood magic." Hawke's eyebrows shoot up and Varric shrugs, knocking back the rest of his drink. "Before that it was kittens, though."

"Isabela and her vintages! I'm sorry I missed that." Hawke sips again; this time it goes down easier, and she takes another, larger swallow.

"Me too," says Varric as Aveline rises from her own seat beside Donnic, who is just laying down his cards with a flourish, and approaches them. Varric adds in a conspiratorial undertone, "By the way—Daisy? Not a fan of tabbies, as it turns out."

"I'm stunned," Hawke says, and turns to Aveline with a smile. The crowd at the end of the table lets out a despairing groan at Donnic's hand, and Varric gives her a thumbs-up as he heads over to survey the card game inspiring such reactions. "Evening, Captain. I trust the company tonight is sufficiently law-abiding?"

Aveline snorts, but there is no real irritation in it. "Not this company, Hawke. But I suppose there's no real harm in it tonight."

"So you say, but I saw that boot take flight."

"He had cards stashed in it," says Aveline as if it is obvious, and Hawke laughs as Anders reseats himself at the end of another hand with a huff, his boot safely replaced. The crowd groans again, and this time she hears Donnic's voice raised in triumph.

"Donnic's playing well, is he?"

"It's the games with Fenris. I haven't won a match against him in weeks." Aveline looks rather put-out at the thought, and even as Hawke laughs the sudden realization she will be without her oldest friend at her back for the first time in seven years sobers her. A part of her chides her foolishness—it will only be for a few months, after all—but Hawke is seized with the irrepressible urge to hug Aveline while she still has the chance.

So she does, much to Aveline's surprise, but after a moment, the guardswoman's arms come around her in return. "I'm glad you're here, Aveline," Hawke says when she pulls back, holding her at arm's length. She doesn't know if it's Varric's alcohol or the knowledge that she is leaving the city in two days, but either way, it suddenly seems important that she tell her friends how dear they are to her. "You'll hold Kirkwall together while I'm gone, right?"

"As if I could help it," Aveline says, rolling her eyes, but she pats Hawke's arm comfortingly as she lets go. "I'm sure the city will still be standing when you get back."

"Thanks, Captain," Hawke says. Donnic calls Aveline back to the game, and before Hawke can get too maudlin, she moves to join Merrill and Sebastian, who have given up their argument and elected to sing instead, although they seem to have chosen different songs and possibly different languages besides. Isabela appears long enough to thrust a new glass into her hand ("You're not drinking! You should be drinking!"), and when Merrill throws her a pleading look, Hawke turns their duet into a lusty trio. She isn't even sure what song she picks in the raucous noise of Varric's rooms—something Fereldan about mud and a mabari, probably—but when they finish to the cue of a cheer from the other end of the room, Merrill clutches her oversized tankard to her chest in delight.

"Thank you, Hawke! Oh, that was lovely. I suppose they won't sing like that in Minrathous."

"Probably not, but that's all right. It just means I'll have something to come home to. Hello, Sebastian."

"Serah Hawke," he says very gravely, as if he has not just finished belting out a traditional Starkhaven marching song, and he raises his nearly-empty tumbler to her. Isabela floats by again and tops it off, throwing Hawke a wink. Sebastian doesn't seem to notice. "Good fortunes on your journey. I'll pray for your safety while you're gone."

It must be Varric's alcohol, Hawke thinks, because she's genuinely touched by his earnestness. "Thank you, Sebastian."

He gives her a solemn nod, and before Hawke can burst into unexplainable and entirely inappropriate tears, she turns back to Merrill. "Anything you want me to bring back as a souvenir?"

Her eyes light up. "The Black Divine! I've always thought he was so interesting, a man in charge of the rogue Chantry. I wonder if he's got black hair, too, or if it's only in the name."

Hawke chokes on her liquor. "I don't, ah. I don't know if that's possible, Merrill. I think he's rather busy…divining."

"Oh, well, in that case—" she pauses, considering. "A parrot. A pirate's parrot."

"Pirate's parrot," says Sebastian thoughtfully, his r's rolling thicker than ever, and he takes a sip from his newly-filled glass.

Hawke smiles. "I'll see what I can do, Merrill."

As the night wears away so does the room's overall sobriety, and by the wee hours of the morning, the diamondback game and its truly impressive pot has not only thoroughly commandeered the group's attention but also spawned side bets of its own. This is where Fenris is, as Hawke discovers; he, Anders, and Donnic have been playing since the bells rang for evening vespers, and when Anders at last turns out his empty pockets and folds just after midnight, Fenris and Donnic each set with good cheer to politely and systematically impoverishing the other. They are both excellent players, though Hawke knows that both Varric and Isabela could defeat either of them—one from real skill, and the other from skilled cheating—however, Varric seems content to deal and offer unsolicited advice, and Isabela, having apparently appointed herself the Master of Liquors, has been far too busy circling the room and topping off unsuspecting drinks with suspicious bottles of alcohol to join the game.

Hawke covers her tumbler with one hand as Isabela sidles by with a bottle with a skull-and-crossbones on the label dangling from two fingers, and Isabela winks as she refills Anders's cup instead. Hawke is not a heavy drinker, due first to long-ingrained frugality, then habit, but she knows when she is intoxicated, and the heat in her cheeks and vaguely-spinning room is enough to tell her to hold on to what sense she has left as she moves to stand behind Fenris on his bench. Across the table, Sebastian is bent very low over his arms, Merrill absently petting his shoulders—though it is less a comforting pat and more as if Merrill might think Sebastian is some kind of pet, and when Merrill mumbles something about feathers Hawke's laughter unbalances her enough that Fenris's shoulder proves a welcoming brace.

Aveline, eliminated early in the game, leans heavily on Donnic and smiles at his cards without really seeing them; Donnic himself seems almost boisterous, though the noise of the room is still great enough that his raised voice is not too loud, and as he wins another hand, Aveline turns her head and kisses him on the cheek. Hawke huffs as Donnic smiles at his wife—this seems remarkably unfair, given that the object of her affections would likely welcome a public kiss from her as much as a viper would—no, as much as a public viper—no, a kiss from a viper—Hawke shakes her head, trying to clear it, and the resultant muzzy mess makes her give up entirely and settle for braiding bits of Fenris's hair.

He tolerates her tugging surprisingly well, though Hawke suspects it is partly due to his own not-inconsiderable intoxication and partly due to the fact that he can't actually see her hands, but before she has finished a half-dozen little braids, he wins a key hand and leans forward to collect his coins, pulling his lovely soft hair out of Hawke's fingers. She heaves a sigh as he leans back, the braids unweaving themselves with nothing to hold them in place, and drops her free hand on his armored shoulder instead, her thumb nudging against his collar. "Well-played," she says as Varric flips a coin to Isabela, the dwarf shaking his head as she slips it into her bodice. Beside him, Anders gives his cup a morose glance, a look notable mostly for its lack of inebriation, and Isabela pats his shoulder in comfort.

Suddenly there are fingers on her wrist where it rests on Fenris's shoulder, and Hawke turns her attention back to the game just as Fenris presses his lips to her palm. It is a delicate, surreptitious movement that goes unnoticed by any save the two of them, but the flare of heat in Hawke's chest burns away her unsteadiness and brings sharp focus to her hand, to the places where his long fingers still rest on her skin. Fenris is half-drunk himself, Hawke knows, which is surely the only reason he would ever be so incautious with his feelings, and yet she can't shake the tingling left by his touch or the sense that he has unsettled her on purpose. A brief scuffle breaks out across the table as Sebastian shifts in his stupor, accidentally dislodging Merrill from the bench beside him; Fenris's eyes slide sideways, just enough to meet hers, and the trace of the dark smile in them sends another shuddering spike of heat through Hawke's stomach.

"Well-played," she breathes again, and when Isabela pours the rest of her bottle into Hawke's glass, she downs the entire thing.

She is still wiping the last of the alcohol from her lips when she feels a pull at her elbow, and Hawke glances over her shoulder to see Anders standing behind her with a serious face. Too serious, really, for the jovial company around them and her own spinning head, but with a whispered word to Fenris, Hawke follows him from Varric's suite, trying to reach an appropriate level of sobriety for what will clearly be a sober conversation. She follows Anders all the way through the front doors and out into the dark, blessedly cool air of Lowtown, which does more to cool her cheeks and clear her head than a splash of cold water to the face. Though the undulation of the streets forces her to lean against the wall under the creaking sway of the eponymous Hanged Man, she doesn't stumble.

Anders, on the other hand, nearly trips over his own feet as he turns to her too quickly; he stops, then, arrested by something in her face, and his words seem to die on his tongue unsaid. Too open again, Hawke thinks, and she looks away.

The silence suddenly seems uncomfortable, even through the soothing haze of drunkenness, so Hawke speaks to break it. "I'm glad you called me out here," she says, and it is true. "I wanted to say goodbye to everyone tonight, but I hadn't had the chance to talk to you yet. Will you be all right while I'm gone?"

He lets out a sharp, bitter laugh that cracks through the night air. "I'm not the one marching blithely into a city bursting with blood magic."

For no good reason, Hawke hears unsaid, but this is the last time she will see her friends for over a month, and she doesn't want to spend these moments fighting. She laughs instead. "I'm never blithe."

"You're always blithe. Don't change the subject."

"I'm not! I just want—and I say this completely un-blithely—I just want to make sure your clinic will be safe. Don't go needling the templars while I'm not here, please?"

"I don't need you to protect me," he snaps, and Hawke bites her cheek.

"I know, Anders," she says, regret creeping under her apology before she can stop it. Two women laugh loudly around the corner, off-duty guardsmen by the look of their uniforms, and the sound of it scrapes hard against their tension. "I'm sorry. I'm only hoping you'll be careful."

Anders looks at her then, and her irritation drains away at the deep, deep sadness in his face. "Hawke," he says, and his voice is as sorrowful as his gaze, "I don't want you to do this."

Her eyes slip closed—this unhappiness is too much for her, this sorrow she has caused made worse by the fact that she cannot alleviate it, and Hawke leans her head back against the wall. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Anders."

He takes a step closer, and then another, and then suddenly he is too close and his face stops only inches from hers, his breath warm on her lips, his hand hovering over her cheek, his fingers just brushing her hair. "I'm worried about you." His voice is low, and strong, and if it were not for the ephemeral whispers of another voice behind it—

"Don't," Hawke says. Don't worry about me. Don't do this. "Anders, don't."

His fingers flex by her skin and a hot thing lights in his eyes, but he still does not touch her; his gaze sears into her as if he cannot look away and she feels suddenly as dangerous as a blazing fire, as if moth-like he has drawn as close to her warmth as he dares without being consumed completely—but she does not know how to shutter that blaze, how to keep him from burning from the inside out. This is not a thing she wishes to touch, even if she is the cause of it, and so Hawke waits, silent—the tips of his fingers graze against her temple, just once, and she raises her face as her heart sinks—now she must act, because now the time has come to stop him, to push him away, to tear back the last thin illusions of friendship between them, the lines they have so carefully preserved—

And Anders lets his hand fall to his side as he steps away from her. He looks away and a rueful chuckle escapes him, and this time when his eyes meet hers the heat has dimmed with the evening air. "I'll be careful, Hawke," he says, pushing his hair out of his face. "I won't take any stupid risks while you're gone."

"I'm glad." Then a thought strikes her, and she hesitates. "Well, wait—don't take any when I come back, either. Actually, maybe you should just be more careful in general? And I will, too, so, please, don't worry about me."

He laughs again, though the sound is sadder than she expects. "Safe travels, Hawke," he says with a wave, and then to Hawke's surprise, he pivots and begins to head towards Darktown.

"Wait!" she calls, and he glances back at her over his shoulder. "Don't you—won't you come back inside? Finish out the night? This is kind of a—gloomy way to say goodbye."

Anders shakes his head, smiling wryly. "I'm tired," he says, the words hanging heavy in the air between them, and when Hawke can find nothing to say in answer, he turns his back to her and slips into the dark.

Hawke watches him until he is gone, an inexplicable helplessness dampening her spirits. She wonders what he saw in her face, in that moment. She knows he did not see love; she wonders if he saw pity.

The two guardswomen laugh again and the sound shakes Hawke from her thoughts; with a start, she realizes she has been standing outside for far too long, and though she cannot follow Anders into his shadows she can't help but be cheered at the thought of the warm fire and the friends waiting for her upstairs. The yellow light of the Hanged Man pools at her heels, tugging her back into its life, and at last, with one final glance after Anders, Hawke turns away.

-.-.-

By the time she reaches Varric's suite again, the diamondback game has reached its final hands, and Varric himself looks more animated than either of the two players still competing. Merrill and Sebastian have joined the others at the table and are snoring in earnest; beside Merrill, Aveline has mostly sobered up and is doing her level best not to give Donnic's hand away with her expression. Isabela, in stark contrast, keeps sneaking obvious peeks at Fenris's cards laid flat on the table and giving painfully transparent hints to Donnic—who, to his credit, seems to be doing what he can to ignore her. She reaches again for Fenris's cards as Hawke draws up to the table and he bats her hand away irritably; his long ears are flushed with alcohol and his movements a little less graceful than usual, but the green stare he gives Hawke as she touches his shoulder is just as intense as it has ever been, and her stomach lurches pleasantly when the corner of his mouth turns up in a faint smile.

"Excuse me," she says as she slides between Fenris and Isabela on the bench, stealing a gulp from Isabela's tankard as she does so.

"Handsy," grumbles Isabela, but she makes room for her all the same. "By the way, Donnic, your honeymoon—it was three weeks, wasn't it? Not four? I hope you took your weapons with you; it wouldn't surprise me if your wife was fond of swordplay—"

"Now you aren't even trying, Rivaini." Varric shakes his head in disappointment and Isabela throws a leftover rind of cheese at his chest. Aveline rolls her eyes, unimpressed and not yet sober enough for true irritation; on the other hand, Donnic blushes, and Hawke, long inured to Isabela's innuendo, finds the sight of it strangely endearing.

Fenris signals for two more cards, and as he draws back, his hand brushes against Hawke's thigh under the table. "Handsy," Hawke murmurs more loudly than she means to, and Isabela laughs. Embarrassed, she nudges the pirate's side in half-hearted remonstration, but rather than give way Isabela elbows her back, and before they can break into a true scuffle that Isabela will undoubtedly win Hawke cedes victory and finishes off her neglected tankard. The amber liquor in it burns all the way down, but she manages to finish it to a round of applause, and when the room starts its pleasing spinning again, she leans her head on Isabela's shoulder and settles down to watch the rest of the game.

Both Fenris and Donnic exchange two more cards, and Varric, ever the merchant prince, adds another handful of coins to the growing pile. "Fifty silver on the human."

Isabela scoffs. "That's what you're going with? 'The human?'"

Varric shrugs. "It's a work in progress."

"Then a sovereign on the elf," Hawke says without lifting her head.

Said elf gives her an appraising glance and Hawke grins at his faint disapproval. "Don't risk your coin, Hawke."

"It's not a risk if you win," she points out, readjusting herself on Isabela's shoulder. Fenris looks at her doubtfully, but when she fails to retract her bet, he bends his head and studies his cards with new intent.

The hand drags on another few minutes, and then Hawke feels Isabela shift her chin on top of her hair. "You and Anders were certainly gone for a while. Taking time for a prolonged goodbye, hm?"

Hawke sighs. "I made him angry. And then sad. And then angry again at the end, I think."

"Huh. Well, I suppose I've had worse sex."

"Ha, ha, ha." She sighs again, feeling Isabela's arm settle casually over her shoulders, and between the gentleness of the gesture and her remembered frustration the tears well up before she can stop them. It is such a simple thing, an evening spent with her friends, and she doesn't know why the thought of it makes her want to weep. They have spent so many nights together like this over the years and will spend many more—this is little different from the others save that she leaves the city in two days, and yet Hawke sucks in a deep breath all the same, memorizing the faces of her friends around her, the moments passing her by, the littlest details like the way Varric's buckle shines in the firelight, the gleam in Isabela's eye as she slips a card into Fenris's jerkin, the tilt of Aveline's head as she murmurs something in Donnic's ear.

Too precious, her friends, and too dear; Hawke closes her eyes, pressing the moment into her heart, where she will not forget it. The tears push harder and Hawke sniffs them back, her breath catching, but though she tries to keep it quiet, Isabela feels the hitch in her chest.

"Aw, how adorable, Hawke! I didn't know you were a weepy drunk."

"Oh, shut up." She opens her eyes to see Fenris glancing at her in concern, but Hawke waves him off. "I'm not weepy. I'm—sentimental."

"Call it what you like, sweet thing."

"I will, thank you," says Hawke primly, letting Isabela's brazenness chase away her melancholy, and at last Varric calls the end to the hand. Fenris lays his cards on the table, turning two of the four face up.

"Two knights," he says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "I wager everything."

Aveline sits up straight, her eyes flicking between Fenris and Donnic's hand, and Varric lets out a low whistle. "Sure of yourself, aren't you?"

"I am."

Donnic settles back into his own chair, studying Fenris across the table. Hawke knows they've been playing regularly and that Donnic is a much better card player than she, but she can see no tells all the same; Fenris looks completely at ease with his wager and his cards, and with less curiosity than Isabela, she has no idea what his hand actually holds. The entire room seems to hang on a breath as Donnic ponders.

"Call," Donnic says at last, and every single person around the table leans forward as he shows his hand.

Three crowns and the Song of Mercy.

Varric whistles again and Hawke lets out a noise of aggravation; it is an excellent hand, damn the man, and the only way Fenris can best it is if his two remaining cards are both knights. But when she looks up, Fenris is smiling—a real smile, as if he is honestly enjoying himself, and for a second Hawke's heart skips as he reaches out to reveal—

Two serpents. A worthless pair of cards. A worthless hand.

"You were bluffing," Hawke says into the sudden silence, and then the room erupts into raucous cheers and laughter as Donnic puts a hand to his forehead in shock. A moment later he leaps from his seat, pulling Aveline up with him, and even as she protests he bends her backwards into a dramatic kiss that has Isabela applauding. The noise wakes Merrill, who instantly congratulates Donnic on his passage into elvhen adulthood; Isabela props herself over the table to explain as Varric claps Donnic on the back, and Hawke takes advantage of the disorder to lean closer to Fenris.

"You were bluffing," she says again, a smile tugging at her own lips. "Bluffer. I thought you had something."

He shrugs. "I thought it was a chance worth taking."

"Ah, well, so it goes. You had me fooled at least—oof!" Isabela's hand lands square in the center of Hawke's back as she hops off the bench, shoving her forward into Fenris's chest; Hawke glances over her shoulder as Fenris steadies her to see Isabela snatching up their last two bottles of wine for a celebratory round, the cork of one of the bottles already between her teeth, and when Isabela notices Hawke's glare she grins and shoots the cork in her direction with a pronounced ptuh. Behind them, Varric has begun sorting out Donnic's winnings, pulling his own sizeable stack of gold and silver out of the pot without remorse.

"I apologize for the loss of your sovereign," says Fenris. Hawke shakes her head, making the room tilt around her, and notices that Fenris himself is not sitting quite straight in his chair.

She also notices he still has not let go of her arms. "Like I said, so it goes," she says, and when he still does not seem convinced, Hawke grasps his wrist and lifts his hand just enough that she can press an echoing kiss to his palm.

Fenris's eyes hood over.

"Don't worry about it," she adds, letting her lips brush against his skin. His other hand tightens on her arm and he leans in, so close his nose touches hers, so close she can feel his breath on her mouth, taste the wine on his lips—and then Isabela thrusts two glasses between them, forcing them apart.

"Stop kissing, we're toasting Donnic!"

"You can't stop what you haven't started!" Hawke shouts after her, not bothering to mask her irritation, and before Fenris stands she steals a quick kiss anyway, just because she can. "Take that, Isabela."

"Hmm," Fenris says, not entirely disapproving, and the two of them rise to their feet in time to see Sebastian stumble his way into consciousness long enough for Isabela to shove a glass of wine into his hand.

"To Donnic!" she cries. "For trouncing Fenris, who lied about his hand, and for taking my superb and wildly accurate advice regarding said hand."

Donnic blushes again, but Hawke can see his fingers lacing through Aveline's at his side. "Then to you, Isabela, for your help," he says, toasting her in turn, "and Fenris, for an excellent and exhausting game, and to you all."

"To Hawke," Merrill adds, startling the room in general and Hawke in particular. "Only because—well, you're going to be gone soon, and you've been such a dear friend to me, and I'd hate for the boat to sink and the last thing you'd ever heard me say is 'I'm sorry I've thrown up on your shoes.'"

"Are you—are you going to throw up on my shoes?" Hawke says faintly.

"Well, you never know. I might. I apologize, if I do." She raises her wineglass further into the air. "To Hawke!"

"Hawke," says Aveline before she can stop her, her hand tightening around Donnic's, and he nods in agreement.

Varric joins in, surprisingly serious. "To Hawke, for being the best story I've told yet."

"To my favorite Champion, because she got me my ship, and may she be bent over a desk and shagged senseless for it." Isabela winks at her, enjoying her discomfiture when even Sebastian manages a lucid, "Hawke."

Fenris's glass joins the others over the table, then, but when she looks at him through the heat of her furious blush, he only raises an eyebrow and says, "Hawke."

They look at her expectantly but Hawke finds herself speechless, as silent as if their voices have stolen hers, and the ever-threatening tears push their way forward again. "You stupid—" she manages before her throat closes; regardless of what she'd said, Isabela is right—she is a horribly weepy drunk, and it takes her two or three swallows before she can speak again. "You stupid, wonderful people. You're my dearest friends in the world, and even if my life would be a lot less complicated without you in it, it'd also be as empty as the Chantry on feastdays." She laughs to keep from crying and thrusts out her glass. "Maker, drink already!"

The glasses clink together, a clear ringing that cuts through the noise drifting up from below, and they drink.

-.-.-

"You toasted me."

"I did."

"And you bluffed."

"Hmm."

Hawke bumps her hip into his, knocking them both a few paces off-balance, and runs a hand through her hair to dislodge its binding at the nape of her neck. "A night full of surprises, that's all."

"Perhaps you're easily surprised."

"Oh, shut up," she says, bumping him again; this time she stumbles in earnest, and Fenris's hands close around her shoulders to steady her. "Sweet Andraste, be so kind as to make the street lie flat."

They both wait until her feet are stable under her, and then Fenris's hand slides to the small of her back to guide her through the dark streets of Hightown. The market shops have all been closed for hours, their banners and tent-cloths rolled up and belted tight as they wait, patient and silent, for the morning, and Hawke lets her fingers trail along the edge of one of the stalls as they pass it. "Be good while we're gone, market," she tells the empty square. "No…fires, or anything."

"Stairs, Hawke," Fenris says dryly, and she turns her head just in time to trip on the first step. The rest, though, pass without incident, and as they start down the long avenue towards her estate, Hawke feels a lazy smile creep over her face.

"Fenris," she says, and when he looks at her, his white hair dimmed to grey with the evening, she leans over and kisses him. He makes a noise of surprise but does not resist; he tastes like smoke, and like wine, and when she opens her mouth under his he wraps both arms around her and pulls her into the shadows of the street. The city is silent, its citizens long asleep, and for many moments there is no sound but their breathing and the hushed call of a swallow as it wings by in the dark. Their embrace is slow, and unhurried, languorous with drink and the intoxicating night, and when they finally break apart, Hawke rests her forehead on his chin where the lyrium twines together and lets the evening pass them by.

"I'm afraid of Minrathous," she says at last, the admission easy now, and sighs against his neck. Her hair, freed from its tie, falls loose and black around her face. "Not for me, really. For you."

"I know."

She presses forward, slides her face into the curve of his neck, and he pulls her closer against him. There are words pressing on her tongue, enormous words far too great for her voice to bear this evening—and yet she feels as though not to say them might crush her under their quiet weight, might flood her soul until the silence drowns her. She cannot wait; she must speak, must give him this last piece of herself while she is still whole enough to give it.

Hawke turns her head further into his chest, and she breathes, "Amari tua."

I love you.

There is barely any voice behind it, but he hears it all the same; a silver flash of lyrium skitters over his skin like lightning and she feels his heart skip hard under her cheek. He gives no answer save to tighten his arms around her, but Hawke does not mind his silence; this is her own to say, her own to give with no reserve kept back, and she offers it without expectations and without regret. It is enough that he knows.

They stand there for a long time. She listens to the beating of his heart, fixing her own to the rhythm of it until she thinks they might keep the same time; then her hand falls to his and, unwavering, she leads him through the shadowed street to her doorstep. She stops, there, and turns to him, and when she meets his eyes she knows her own are sure.

"Stay with me tonight," she says.

Fenris looks at her, his eyes flaring green in the night, and he says, "I will."

Hawke smiles, and she opens the door, and he follows her into the dark.

-.-.-

By the time dawn breaks on the day of their voyage, Hawke has been awake for well over two hours, seeing with Orana's help to the final details of their departure. Her trunks are stacked two deep by the door, her few gowns taking far less space than her robes and spare potions; what little space she'd had left she'd filled with books and her favorite shawl, and even after Orana had mercilessly culled her selections everything had still barely fit. Her papers of identification and the letters from Minrathous, crumpled and smoothed and crumpled again, are tucked safely away into a satchel buried deep in the largest trunk. It makes her anxious, the thought of everything depending on such a few fragile pieces of paper, but short of Isabela pocketing them as reading material she can see no thief helping himself to them very easily, and she forces herself to be content with that.

"Are you sure you don't want my boy to help you with these, messere?" Bodahn asks for the third time in as many minutes, tearing Hawke from her thoughts.

She smiles and pats his shoulder. "I'm sure, but thank you. The cart should be here any minute," she adds, glancing out the window at the position of the sun. "I told him half-eight and it's nearly that now. I offered an extra few silver for punctuality, so I suppose we'll see if that makes a difference soon enough."

As it turns out, it does; the man and his cart and mule arrive at her doorstep promptly at the bells of half-past, a pair of his brawny sons in tow to help with the lifting. Orana oversees the packing in a flurry of worried unease despite Hawke's assurances that her trunks are sturdy enough to survive a little bumping, and when Hawke loses count of how many times Orana makes them rearrange their cart, she gives up and leaves her to it, choosing instead to fetch a pair of apple tarts left over from breakfast. Sandal is nowhere to be found; Bodahn, though, hovers behind Orana, just as fretful as she, and as Hawke leans against her open front door and watches them bustle about, she begins to suspect they're rather enjoying themselves.

Fenris arrives just as the hirelings heave the last trunk onto the cart, the mule nearly asleep at the wait, and Hawke waves at him from the doorway. Her mouth is full of pastry, but she offers him the other tart as he approaches. "Still hot," she warns him as he takes it, and they both wince at the sudden spray of crumbs that dust his breastplate. Hawke swallows the rest and brushes him off. "Sorry about that. I've got a cart—do you have anything you need loaded?"

He cocks an eyebrow and half-turns so she can see the single drawstring bag slung over his sword's hilt. "I do not."

"Is that—Fenris, where's the rest of it? Is that all you're bringing?"

"It's all I need," he says as if it is obvious.

Hawke watches the man's older son push one of her four trunks an inch to the left at Orana's direction. "Oh."

He laughs quietly and lets his hand brush over her shoulder. "I have always traveled lightly," he tells her, and though the reminder of why he needed to still stings her heart, she returns his smile.

At last the trunks are loaded to Orana's satisfaction, and the man climbs aboard the cart and flicks the reins to wake the dozing mule. The boys take their places at the rear with their hands out to steady the load; the man clucks his tongue, and then, just like that, they are off. "We'll meet you at the docks," Hawke calls over the creaking wheels, and he raises his hand in acknowledgment as they disappear around the corner.

Orana bites her lip. "Oh, I hope they don't move too quickly. The small trunk's got that broken hinge and I'm sure they didn't tie it down very well."

"It'll be fine, Orana," Hawke says, pulling her into an embrace. There had never been a question of Orana's joining them on this voyage; aside from there being no more room on The Siren's Call II, her master had been Hadriana, not Danarius, and her ownership had not transferred to Hawke with his death. Still, she is free in Kirkwall in all but name; with no fortune in lyrium to tempt her new master, whoever he might be, she is safe as long as she stays away from Tevinter. "I'm leaving everything to you and Bodahn while I'm gone. Be careful, all right?"

She nods against her shoulder and Hawke kisses her cheek as they pull apart. "Be safe, mistress," she says, and then Bodahn steps forward with outstretched hand.

"Good luck, messere," he says, clasping her hand in both of his. "I hope those foreign nobles don't give you too much trouble."

Hawke nods gratefully, and then over his head she sees another, paler face peeking out from the doorway—Sandal, come to see her off. He looks unhappy and a bit nervous as he makes his way to his father's side, but Hawke smiles as she bends over and kisses him on the forehead. "You be careful too, Sandal, please. Don't blow up the house if you can avoid it."

"Okay," he says, but as she straightens he catches her hand and presses something into it. "Enchantment," he tells her seriously, and then he retreats to the safety of her doorstep.

Hawke only has a moment to study the little bird-shaped rune he has given her—it is exquisitely etched, she sees, and carries a light all its own—before the bells toll nine and time pushes them on. She tucks the stone into her pocket and slings her staff onto her back, and with one last wave to the people who have become her family, she falls into step with Fenris and leaves her home behind.

-.-.-

The weather is cool for Cloudreach, and the breeze that picks up as they pass through Hightown makes Fenris hunch into himself in defense and Hawke tug the furred hood of her Champion's robes over her ears. Fenris knows the summer months are nearly upon them—indeed, Minrathous summers are nearly overpowering in their heat—and yet, even with that as their destination, he finds that he still looks forward to breaking free from the shadows of the city on Isabela's ship, to the promise of open water and warm winds off the sea.

In truth, Fenris remembers little of his original flight from Seheron. He knows it was cold; he remembers the ice cracking against the hull with enormous, hollow bongs like a bell, and the frost that crept steadily over the iron-bound barrels he hid behind as if their icy fingers sought to reclaim him for his master. He remembers too the blind terror of pursuit, the fear that had awoken him night after night with its silent and driving urge to run.

How curious, then, that he feels none of this fear now.

Fenris knows he ought to be afraid, and in a distant, clinical way, perhaps he is. To return to Minrathous so willingly, to trust the freedom he has killed for, has bled for, to the safekeeping of a woman who knows nothing of the vipers that wait for her with honeyed words keeping their poison sweet—and a mage besides, as dangerous as any magister he knows. It is beyond imprudent, beyond reckless; it is a decision so objectively unwise that had anyone else of his acquaintance made it he would have scorned them as a fool.

And then they pass a portion of stone wall lining the long avenue between her estate and the market. It is a perfectly plain section of polished limestone half-hidden behind pillars and hanging ivy, unremarkable in every way save only that it is the place where Hawke had turned her face into his neck and whispered that she loved him.

His heart skips again at the memory and it takes a conscious act of will not to quicken his steps. Beside him he sees Hawke's lips curve into a smile at the sight as well, and the same warm thing that had unfurled in his chest that night threatens to overwhelm him again. The very thought of it—the very idea of being loved—is such a foreign, dangerous thing in his experience; slaves who permitted themselves the luxury of love always regretted it, always, in the end, when that weakness was inevitably exploited to leave one, or both, ruined. Slaves do not love.

Hawke loves him.

They turn down the stairs into the market without speaking, each of them lost in their own thoughts, and Fenris finds himself watching Hawke more than his feet. Her black hair is pulled into its habitual tail at the base of her neck; her blue eyes are both cautious and guarded, though behind them he can see her impatient anticipation of their voyage still undampened by his warnings. Every now and then she touches her staff over her shoulder as if reassuring herself it is still there, and when she catches Fenris watching her the fourth time she reaches for it, she winces.

"I'm nervous," she says, as if he might not have noticed.

"So I see," Fenris says, his voice deadpan, letting the conversation wash his musings from his mind. Soon enough he will have to sort through his feelings, to face what he suspects is already rooted too deep in his heart to be named anything but—but no, that is for another time, and he gives his full attention to their surroundings as they make their way down the steps into Lowtown. "Do you sail poorly?"

Hawke shakes her head, skirting a broken step. "Not really. I mean, the trip here is a bit of a blur—Bethany, you know, and making sure my mother was all right—and we were kept mostly below-decks and out of the way, but I don't remember being ill. I know Aveline was horribly sick in the beginning, though."

Fenris tries to picture the woman as anything but hale and hearty and fails. "I suppose it is fortunate she is not coming, then."

"Mm." Hawke looks out over the city sprawling out at their feet, where they can just catch a glimpse of the sea between the neglected buildings of Lowtown. "Aveline would hate Minrathous, I think," she adds, softer, and the glimpse of the ocean vanishes behind one of the bazaar's shopfronts.

"There are many things to hate." Fenris knows he sounds bitter, and he is—and yet he still does not fear the city, does not question his going. He does not even question Hawke's intent; at this point, he worries only about her ability to ingratiate herself with the magisters, to win their approval without sacrificing herself to their whims. He knows how dangerous they are, how brutal they can be to those they perceive as interlopers—ah, but that is why he is going, after all. Because he knows what she does not understand; because he can protect her where she cannot see the threat—and because he knows, too, that what he has asked of her will not be an easy thing to discover, even with that somniari's help, and that even if she manages to uncover evidence of a threat to the Fog Warriors, the strike against Seheron might still come too swiftly no matter how she tries to stop it.

He is glad, too, that Hawke understood the depth of his debt to the Fog Warriors so easily. Even now he cannot think of Seheron without shame, without profound regret, and though he knows that protecting what is left of them now will do little for the men and women he massacred, it is still a step that he can take, with Hawke's help, in alleviating that debt.

Of course, all his good intentions will mean little if Hawke cannot maneuver safely through Minrathous's social circles. "Your introduction," he prompts in Arcanum as they pass by Gamlen's home, weaving towards the entrance to the docks.

"To an equal or a servant?" Hawke asks in the same language. Her accent is still undeniably Fereldan, but it has almost reached the status of "lilting" rather than "offensively thick mess" as it had been in the beginning, and Fenris nods in approval.

"Both."

"I don't introduce myself to servants. You said they ought to know me." She chews on the inside of her cheek, thinking. "To an equal…I give my full name and the names of my mother and father. I present my hand to be kissed, like so," she holds out her hand in front of her, raising her pinky finger in a mockingly dainty gesture, "and wait for their names in return."

"Demonstrate."

"No."

"You will have to give your name to them eventually. You shouldn't waste this chance to practice."

Hawke scoffs, switching to the trade language. "I know my name, Fenris. I promise I don't need to practice saying it."

"I'll believe that when you can say it without grimacing."

His smile is too strong to be hidden, but Fenris has no intention of relenting, and when Hawke glances at his expression she heaves a woebegone sigh and pulls him off to the side of the street under an awning. "Fine," she says, her blue eyes dimmed in the sudden shade, though her exasperated amusement is still quite visible. "I practice here, and then I don't have to again until we get to Minrathous. Deal?"

"Agreed," says Fenris, and waits. The awning overhangs a back door to a tiny shop, and the crates of goods stacked high around them gives them a modicum of privacy—which is the only reason, he suspects, Hawke is willing even to do this much.

Hawke sucks in a breath, brushing her bangs from her eyes, and then she straightens into what Fenris is quickly coming to think of as her magister's mask. Her eyes blank into a quiet, pleasant humor and her eyebrows relax, smoothing away her expression; even her mouth straightens, and soon her face is full of nothing but a vague, empty amiability. "My name is Euphemia Hawke," she says in Arcanum, the syllables rolling smooth and heavy from her tongue, "daughter of Malcolm Hawke and Leandra Amell. I am so pleased to make your acquaintance at last." She raises her hand between them and then pulls it away, obviously expecting that to be the end of it, but before she can escape Fenris catches her hand in his.

"Your name is well-known here," Fenris says, his voice low, and presses a quick kiss to her knuckles without releasing her fingers, as if they stood in one of Minrathous's great marble halls and not in a Lowtown alley with merchants shouting at each other over their patrons' haggling. "The pleasure is mine."

Hawke allows her shock to show only a moment before she slips back into her role, dropping her eyes away from his. "You are too kind, sir," she murmurs. "I am afraid you have the advantage of me."

She casts a demure look at him through her eyelashes and Fenris lets a lazy smirk play across his mouth; this is more than a competition, but he wants to best her all the same. He steps nearer, so close her fingers still held in his hand brush his chest, and drops his voice even lower as he sweeps his thumb over her knuckles in an understated caress. "An advantage I intend to maintain, Euphemia Hawke. What brings you to the city?"

"Fenris," she breathes. Her mask is gone with his name and her wide-eyed amazement is too much for him; he laughs, and the spell breaks.

"A transparent answer," he says, chiding her, and Hawke blushes as she thumps him on the arm.

"That was so unfair," she grumbles in the trade tongue, stalking her way out from under the awning and back into the clear morning sunlight. "Stupid great-aunts with stupid names, stupid fathers too soft for their own good, stupid stubborn elves and their voices—"

Fenris follows a few paces behind, not bothering to hide his amusement. "Your accent is better."

She throws him an obscene gesture over her shoulder, stomping her way down the long stairs to the docks without waiting for him to catch up, and Fenris laughs again.

He catches up to her about halfway down the stairs and falls into step at her side, still smiling; Hawke rolls her eyes, ignoring him the rest of the way down, and touches her staff again. At last they reach the bottom of the stairs and enter the docks proper; a moment later, its ever-present smell of fish washes over him, and Fenris coughs at its pungency.

"Serves you right," Hawke says, but the light of excitement has begun to outshine her annoyance. "Come on, let's go! Isabela must be chomping at the bit to be away by now."

"Away from this smell," Fenris grumbles, but when Hawke seizes his hand in her own, he allows himself to be tugged. They hurry through the streets, his drawstring bag thumping against his back as they speed past the gates of the onetime qunari compound, now closed and bolted, past the office of the harbormaster and the squat rows of warehouses until they reach the eastern moorings. There are other ships docked here, from schooners to rowboats, and their masts stretch across the waters like an endless bare-branched forest, the trees made of vining ropes and furled sails bound tightly to their spars. Sailors call out to each other in a language of their own as the waves lap at their ships; overhead, a flock of seagulls wings by, crying out at the sea.

"Oh, beautiful," Hawke breathes, arrested mid-step, and Fenris stops beside her.

The Siren's Call II is a beautiful ship indeed; even Fenris, who knows little enough of sailing, can admit it. Isabela had said she was a clipper, built for speed, and now that he sees the ship her purpose is obvious. Her lines are long and sleek, meant to skim over the waves rather than plow through them, and her double masts are built tall and strong to bear the brunt of the wind without breaking. Even with the sails bound the ship is impressive; he cannot imagine what she will look like on the open water in full glory. The hull is painted a deep blue with white trim, a perfect match to Isabela's colors, and Fenris realizes that to be captain of such a ship would be no small source of pride.

"You finished gawking?" a voice calls out, and Fenris looks up to see Varric leaning over the railing and grinning at them. "If you ask nicely, the captain might even let you come aboard."

"Very nicely," says another voice, and a moment later Isabela appears next to Varric with her hands on her hips. "I don't let just anybody fondle my timbers. Present history notwithstanding."

"Isabela, she's lovely." Hawke steps forward, her face all eager delight, and Fenris sees the pirate's eyes soften. "Is she ready to go? Are you ready?"

"Nearly. Your trunks are already in your cabin. Oh, and you get to choose—guided tour now, or later? The tour itself isn't an option; this lovely lady has been languishing too long without attention, and you get the honor of providing it."

"Oh, now, please," Hawke answers for both of them, and when Isabela gestures at the gangplank, she grins and steps forward—

And then her smile falls from her face, and she turns to Fenris with a sudden seriousness that surprises him. "Last chance," she tells him quietly. "Once we board there's no turning back."

Fenris considers. Hawke has not made this decision lightly, and neither will he; and yet, as he meets Hawke's steady gaze with his own, there is no uncertainty in his heart, no uneasiness to give him pause. There is only the desire to repay his debt, to save who he can—and to protect Hawke.

Hawke, who loves him.

He is sure. Fenris nods, once, and joins Hawke on the gangplank, and together they step onto the gleaming deck of The Siren's Call II.

Despite her words, the tour Isabela gives them is brief; the pirate is nearly desperate to be out on the open sea, and after she shows them to their cabin, she calls over one of the deckhands and returns topside to finish the preparations for cast-off. Their cabin is not large, but it is comfortable enough even with Hawke's trunks lashed in one corner, and she sinks down onto the narrow bed as Fenris peers out the porthole window. A tiny but well-made desk is bolted to the wall across from the bed, overlooked by a pair of hurricane lamps; there is little room for much else, and Fenris unloops his drawstring bag from his hilt and drops it onto the quilt by Hawke's legs.

"What's in here? Can I look?" Her fingers are already tugging it open by the time Fenris nods, and she reaches in with blatant curiosity.

He'd meant it when he said he travelled lightly, but Fenris still finds himself smiling at Hawke's disappointment as she pulls out only a change of clothes and his preferred sword polish and whetstone. "This is…this is it?"

He sinks down beside her on the bed in an easy motion, stretching his bare feet out in front of them, and Hawke holds up his spare shirt as if it offends her. "I'm sure you will overcome your disappointment."

"You didn't even bring a book. I think I packed a dozen."

"What slave would travel with a book?"

"Oh," says Hawke after a pregnant pause, and when Fenris looks over her neck is flushed with embarrassment. "I'm—I'm sorry I keep forgetting, Fenris," she blurts out at his raised eyebrow. "I've just never thought of you like that and—"

He silences her with a kiss. His fingers slide to her jaw, holding her in place, and she closes her eyes as she leans into his hand. He knows why she forgets and treasures that reason—her insistence on his worth is rare enough outside Tevinter and nonexistent within it, and if he chooses to spend the last moments of his freedom in this woman's arms, it is his own decision. Hawke sighs into his mouth and he pulls her closer; every noise she makes he swallows, every drag of her fingers over his markings he memorizes, storing up this moment as a man at dusk turns back for one last glimpse of the sun. There is a thin and silver chain being forged between them, a rope of shining, twisted links that binds him to her not in captivity but in something deeper, something at once startlingly profound and as unsurprising as a long-cherished truth.

He loves her.

It is as simple as that.

-.-.-

Far too soon, they are interrupted a smart rapping at the door that shatters the moment's sanctity. "Your pardon, sers," comes a man's voice, muffled through the varnished oak, "but we're casting off. Captain's asked you to come topside."

"We'll be right there," Hawke answers for them both, and her lips, reddened from his kiss, quirk into a smile at his sullen pique. "Come on," she says, dropping one last kiss on his nose as she pushes up from the bed. "I want to see this."

"I am yours," he says dryly, and a moment later, they emerge from the hatch to see Varric still leaning on the rail with a wide grin spread across his face.

"Look at her," he says as they approach, nodding his head towards the raised quarterdeck. "The last time I saw a woman that pleased with herself I was pinned to the floor with a pair of my own bolts."

Hawke laughs, but Varric is right; Isabela towers above them in fine form indeed, standing fist on hip with her legs spread wide, the sunlight flashing in her eyes like wildfire, and when she catches their eye she gives them a wild, fierce smile that causes more than one deckhand to stop dead in his tracks. "Move, whoresons!" she shouts and they leap back into action with alacrity. Fenris can understand their awe; Isabela has always been graceful, but here, on this ship, she is home.

She gestures for them to join her at the wheel. The narrow, steep stairs to the quarterdeck are nearly too much for Varric and Fenris gives him an unceremonious boost up the last two, ignoring the dwarf's indignant huff, and joins Hawke at the rail. The ship spreads out below them in a mass of ropes and riggings and the bustling of the nearly thirty sailors hired for the voyage, and Isabela, presiding over them like a queen, slings her arm over Hawke's shoulder.

"Not a sight like it in the world," she sighs. "I owe you just for making this possible, Hawke."

Hawke snorts, but leans her head against Isabela's for a moment. "Are we going to…ship off? Heave ho, set sail, all that?"

"Sweet thing, I adore you, but stop talking." She pulls away and straightens her bandanna when Hawke tugs it off-kilter with a grin, and Fenris does not try to hide his smile. "All hands! Raise anchor—we're getting this tub afloat!" A rousing chorus of "aye, Captain" rises from the men, and Isabela spins, her dark hair flying out behind her as she puts one tanned hand on the great hardwood wheel. Across the bay the Gallows juts from the cliffs, its enormous slave statues looming over the waters in a grotesque send-off of their own, the last they will see of Kirkwall for two months.

"Hawke!" The cry comes faintly over the wind, and Hawke and Fenris both turn to see Merrill waving at them from the pier. Aveline stands beside her, and Anders and Sebastian as well, and when Fenris glances sideways at Hawke he is unsurprised to see tears in her eyes. She leans over the rail and raises her hand in a wave of her own.

"Take care of yourselves," Hawke shouts, and with another sailor's bellow of "Anchor's aweigh!" the ship lurches forward, nearly sending her over the balustrade before Fenris catches her belt to secure her.

"Be careful!" calls Aveline, laughing; Sebastian salutes them with his hand over his heart, and even Anders manages a genuine smile. Merrill stands on tiptoes, both hands waving enthusiastically over her head. "You too, Fenris!"

He starts, then a smile twitches his mouth before he can stop it, and he raises one gauntleted hand in a farewell of his own.

The wind picks up, sweeping them out to open sea, and Fenris turns his face into it, tasting its salt and feeling the promised warmth of the sea breezes calling to him. At last, they leave behind the City of Chains so that they may race to meet the heavier chains of another, and at his side Hawke looks forward, her eyes turned towards the farther shores that await them.

Hawke is with him, and Fenris is not afraid.