"How do you do it?"
"Do what, darling?" Bethany raised her amber eyes from the sheets she was embroidering and smiled at her little sister.
"You and Father. You're never afraid of this… This magic."
Bethany shrugged. "I don't know, Irya. To me, it's a natural thing, like breathing."
"It hurts me," Irina said. "Casting a spell… I feel it. It's like bleeding to death."

Irina opened her eyes. Her mother was snoring lightly on the lower bunk bed. She wished she could sleep all night long as well. Her dreams always troubled her, reminding her of the life she'd once known, and how lonely it was for her now. Neither her father nor her older sister were there, and Carver and Leandra had no idea how it felt for her.

Her older sister had been so talented… Bethany had been their father's favourite child, the one that had embraced the gift of magic and had never feared it. In her dreams, Irina could still see her, bold and beautiful, her thick black hair –the Hawke trait that she lacked, looking more like an Amell instead– flowing in the breeze that she could summon in those long hot days in Lothering.

They had all been there when Bethany married her beloved farmer, the only man she'd ever know and the one who would be proud of what she was. They'd been happy for a year, until she had got pregnant. Irina had been there when Bethany had died, their father having perished only one month before. An ill-fated delivery had cost her sister her life, and her husband had begged Irina to burn her body and that of the baby's, according to her sister's wishes.

Can't you do it? She'd wanted to say the words badly, but Bethany's husband was in such a state of grief that resistance seemed selfish. He'd wept when he laid her body to rest over a bed of hay, her arms holding the little bundle that was her baby on her chest. He'd covered her with the sheets that her sister had made for their wedding, and he'd waited.

Can't you do it? The words had come up to her lips this time. How she had wanted to scream, to cry; to be the one lying dead there instead of Bethany, her fearless sister. She'd held her breath and raised her hands. She'd felt it coming to her the same way as it always came – needles rushing down her veins, tearing her apart from the inside, digging deeper and deeper into her. The fire had revealed itself, purple and orange, and the flames had licked the bodies, consuming them. Irina's eyes had been shut tight, but she could still feel. She could still smell.

Seeing the crates with the Aggregio Pavali filled Fenris with rage. For a moment, he stood there and considered shattering every single one of them, pretending that they were all the bloody magisters that he had ever known. If he closed his eyes, their faces would go back to him. He didn't want to remember, and yet…

There was nothing there at the back of his mind. Nothing to go back to; nothing that could lend him strength in a moment of need. The only survival he was fighting for now was his own. He thought of Carver, leading his little sister around. Was she worth all the fighting? She was nothing but a witch. Carver was talented – no doubt the Templars would take him. Why he was still squatting in Lowtown was something that Fenris could not comprehend.

He took one of the bottles, holding it in his hands as if it was a weapon. He laughed when he remembered all the times that he had thought of smashing one of those on Danarius's head.

"Not from the bottle, you little beast," he said out loud in a mocking tone. "Let it breeeathe, Fenris." He threw the bottle at the far end of the room, enjoying the sound of the broken glass. He listened. Nobody had come for him. He wouldn't have to kneel down and pick the pieces with his mouth. Not anymore.

The smell of the wine got to him – bittersweet and dense. Images went through his head: the elves working in the kitchen of the mansion; the feeling that they were afraid of him, as if he was one of the mages himself… He didn't know who or what he was. A slave, at that point. Just like them. But at the same time, something else. A pet. A tool. An asset. Danarius's meal. The magister had fed off him, draining him the way that witch had done it that night.

He looked at his markings. He was mages' food. That was his role.

Fenris took another bottle. Still Aggregio Pavali. That accursed wine seemed to follow him wherever he went. Perhaps it was a sign. At least he didn't have to pour it for anybody else any longer.

He opened it and smelled it. Let it breathe, Fenris. The words came back to him and he felt his upper lip stiffening in disgust. He took a swig and let it rest in his mouth for a while. When he swallowed, he couldn't help gagging at the burning sensation. The pain was always there, reminding him that he was still alive.

He wondered if the wine would bring back more memories, or if it would help him forget. He didn't know what he wanted. Both. Neither. Everything. Nothing. He wanted to survive, but he also wanted to cease to be. He wanted to confront Danarius, but to do so, he had run away. He laughed bitterly at his existence as he took two more bottles from the crate and trudged up the stairs.

"We can wait until he comes out," Leandra suggested. They were standing outside the Lowtown tavern, hoping to get a glimpse of Carver. He hadn't returned home the previous night.

Irina looked around surreptitiously. Even in broad daylight, there was a chance that Templars would spot her. "Maybe he's outside the city?" she ventured, but her mother shook her head.

"Nonsense. He'd let us know. He always does. Maybe I should go in," Leandra muttered.

"We could send Gamlen in?"

"I'm sure your uncle's already at that brothel in Hightown at this time of the day."

Irina was about to reply when she caught sight of a lanky figure that was staggering towards the tavern. He was unmistakable. Leaving aside the fact that he was an elf out of the alienage and that his garments were unusual -to say the least-, there was the question of his markings. They looked white in the sunlight, while they were silver in the moonlight, and blue when he…

Should I say something, she wondered. Will he know who I am? She saw him walk past them, barely aware of her presence. "Fenris," she called out timidly.

His eyes turned to her. A sour smell of wine and vomit got to her and she had to make an effort not to gag. "I know you?" he grunted.

"I…" She didn't expect him to remember her much, but apparently he hadn't acknowledged her at all. "I was wondering if you could tell Carver to come out?"

Fenris frowned for a while, but then his eyes focused. "You're the wi… The sister."

"That's me, yes." She was eager to finish the conversation, especially since she felt Leandra disapproving of the company they seemed to keep. "If you are going in, can you tell my brother to come out? Just for a moment?"

He squinted. "Why don't you go in your-yourself?" He hiccuped, and a wave of acrid smell hit her. "There are no Temp-Templars in there…" He pushed the door open and went in.

Irina looked at her mother, who was shaking her head. "Carver's not like that, mother," the young woman said softly.

"I hope not," Leandra sighed. "Your father and I… We taught him better than hanging out with people like this. I really don't want to get involved in your brother's affairs." She took the basket from Irina's hands and started walking back to the house. "Tell him to come soon, or that next time he should let us know that he's alive, at least."

Irina stared at the open door that led to the dark tavern. She'd never dared go in. It was her brother's haven. She closed the door behind her and stepped in the main hall. It wasn't so terrible. There were a couple of barmaids doing the rounds and being ogled by some of the customers, but it didn't feel like the den of iniquity that she'd thought it would be.

"Not bad," a voice said behind her. She turned to see a man looking at her behind. "You new here?" She took a few steps back and hit the table behind her, getting a wave of sniggering from the men sitting at it.

"Wanna drink with us, sweetheart?" they laughed. "We can get a room and–"

"I'm sorry, I… I'm looking for my brother," she said weakly. She looked around and saw Fenris watching her from the bar, a glass on his lips.

"I don't know your brother, but I can show you a little friend you can play with," one of the men sneered and he reached out for her. Irina stepped back just in time to avoid his touch.

"Hey. Leave her alone."

His gravelly voice sent a jolt along her spine. There wasn't a trace of drunkenness in his tone. Irina wondered if he'd just pretended not to recognize her.

"Or else what, elf?" the man said, standing up. He was a few inches taller than Fenris. Both men stared at each other, and Irina became aware of how silent the tavern seemed to have gotten.

"What's going on here?" Varric asked, coming down the stairs. "I come down for a drink and this is tomb-quiet." The dwarf sauntered towards them, munching on a piece of cheese. "Fenris, Irina," he greeted them.

"Friend of yours, Varric?" the tall man asked.

"Eh." Varric shrugged. "More like family. Can't shake them off, it seems." He took Irina by the arm and beckoned Fenris to follow them upstairs. "What are you doing here, Irina? You should have let me know you were coming."

"I was looking for Carver," she mumbled. "He didn't come home last night, and my mother–"

"He didn't?" Suddenly Varric seemed to have woken up. "That's odd; it was supposed to be an easy job. Don't worry: bad news travels fast, so I'm guessing he's still alive. He was going there with Aveline and Isabela, so I'll wager he's got his back covered." He took a look at Irina's face. "Not convinced, princess? Well, let me get Bianca and let's head for Darktown, shall we?" He turned to Fenris and sniffed the air. "You've had one too many again, haven't you."

"I'm not that drunk," the elf grunted. "Why Darktown?"

"Because I sent him to a possible contact there, for the expedition, you know. Speaking of which, are you in or not? Have you made your choice?"

Fenris shrugged. "The money wouldn't be bad. And I have the time, so…"

"Well then… Whatever you can carry. No percentages unless you're a partner."

"It's a deal, then," Fenris nodded. He stretched and yawned. "Shall we?"

"Shall we what?" Varric said, grabbing Bianca and heading out.

"Go to… Darktown?" Fenris asked, confused.

"Oh, you don't need to come. I'm just walking Irina there to see if Carver's around.

"Ah, right." Fenris stood there, looking around awkwardly. "Well, I'll wait for you to return," he said in a low voice. Irina followed Varric downstairs. Carver had always forbidden her to go to Darktown – not that she needed to go, but when they had worked for the Red Iron, he insisted that she stayed behind during jobs that took place there. She stopped walking and looked back hesitantly.

"What is it, princess?" Varric asked.

Irina dashed up the stairs and went back to Varric's room. Fenris was looking at a diary that was lying on the table, which seemed to contain drawings of the group.

"F-Fenris?" she called softly. The elf raised his eyes and waited. "I don't have my… I wasn't ready to… Would you mind…? Coming with us? To… Darktown. Just in case."

Fenris appeared to weigh her up for a brief moment. He stood up and picked up his sword. "Sure," he muttered.

The walk there was not long, but it certainly was a quiet one. Irina made no attempt to start or keep a conversation with her partners, and Fenris seemed to be more concerned about remembering the way back. Varric grumbled, wishing that Carver and Isabela were there.

Darktown wasn't as dark as Fenris and Irina had imagined, but it was certainly more rancid. Whoever had designed that part of the city, at least they had made sure that the sewers were in areas that were not appealing to people.

As they approached their destination, Irina caught sight of the gigantic statues that had seen them arrive over a year before. She leaned against the handrail and breathed in – the first fresh puff of air since they'd come down.

"Kirkwall reeks of wicked history." Fenris's voice took her by surprise. He'd maintained a certain distance all along the way. Irina cast a quick glance at him. His eyes were set on the statues. "The Twins," he muttered. "A statement of the powerful and the oppressed of the 'Free' Marches. I'd heard of their chains, used to block and extort merchants. Only a city like this could make the chains functional. Not even the statues of slaves can get a break."

Irina watched the vessels rolling in and away. "My brother says you were a slave once," she said quietly. "In Tevinter."

"That I was," Fenris nodded.

"He said your master was a magister, and that's why you hate mages."

Fenris was silent for a while. "Magisters delve in blood magic, and they never hesitate to sacrifice their servants in exchange for a bit of power. Should I not hate them?"

Irina lowered her eyes. "I understand your hatred."

"I cannot imagine that. You're a mage. If someone like you sympathized with the oppressed in Tevinter, you'd soon find yourself the fodder of those who sought to maintain their power."

Irina's hands rubbed her naked arms. "It's colder now." She turned to Varric, who had been watching them silently.

"Come. We're close now."

The lantern was lit, signaling that they were allowed to go in. As soon as they opened the door, they saw Isabela sitting next to Carver, whose eyes were closed. Irina ran towards her brother.

"He's fine now. He needs to sleep. He had a rough night," Isabela said gently. "Anders here healed him. He had a run-in with one of those damned mage-hunters – got stabbed in the back. If Anders hadn't been there…"

Irina looked up. There was a dark-blond man watching her. "You must be Irina," he said kindly. "Your brother told me about you. In fact, you're the main reason he helped me out last night." He extended his hand. "I'm Anders."

"Wonderful. Another mage," Fenris scoffed.

Anders raised an eyebrow. "And he recognizes mages. Smarter than most Templars. And you are…?"

"My name is Fenris," the warrior replied.

"Ah. Carver mentioned you. Are you going to the Deep Roads expedition as well?"

"He's just decided to join us," Varric interceded. "Did you find the person you were looking for, Blondie?"

The mage shook his head. "No, we… We were too late." He was evidently upset, and Varric didn't want to pursue the questioning. He knew that Carver or Isabela would tell him all about it later on.

Anders turned to Irina. "Your brother says that you could do with some training, and he's agreed to let me be your mentor, if that's fine with you."

Irina's grey eyes detached from her sleeping brother and landed on the mage. "I don't know. So far I've been doing well."

"He says you've been avoiding your magic like the plague," Anders smiled in a friendly way.

"I don't think I need it, to be honest," Irina shrugged nervously. Anders sat down in front of her and watched her intently. His amber eyes tried to read her, and she grew visibly uncomfortable with every second that went by.

"You know that he'll be gone for some time. It's necessary for you to at least learn to protect yourself effectively."

"She said no," Fenris grunted. "Don't push her." He didn't know what had led him to speak in such a manner, but it was obvious that something had rubbed him off the wrong way. Or perhaps it had been the night of drinking and the subsequent morning. The hangover had started setting in, and he felt as if his head had been kicked a thousand times.

Irina looked at him and then back at Anders. She seemed to be struggling with something. Her eyes gazed at her brother and she stroked his cheek. Carver barely moved. She looked back at Fenris and for the first time, she smiled. It was a simple smile, the kind that wasn't meant to convey mirth, but to show that she had listened.

"It will be fine," she told Fenris.

He found himself wanting to believe her.

...

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A/N: Thanks for the great feedback you gave me! I really hope I can deliver. Someone asked about the ages via PM. Basically, the ages are reversed. Carver is 26 years old, and Irina is 19. Bethany died when she was 24.