"There will be someone coming looking for me today," Fenris told Aveline, as she tucked a napkin in under his chin, preparing him to eat the breakfast she had brought upstairs for him; well-sweetened porridge, rich with cream and spices, and a mug of sweet milky tea.

"Really? Who are you expecting?" she asked, eyebrows rising.

"A friend," he said, annoyed at the faint edge of disbelief in her voice; as if she thought he was making things up, or worse, imagining things. "Human, young – light blond hair. It was long, the last time I saw him. Light gold eyes, tanned skin. He'll most likely look for you at the Keep - he knows how to find your office, anyway."

"And does this friend have a name?" she asked, as she spooned up the first bite of porridge for him.

"Feynriel," he managed to say, before she slipped the food into his mouth.

She paused then, frowning. "Why does that name ring a bell?"

"Someone Hawke helped, years ago. I don't think you were there for that one," he told her, then managed a faint smile. "Too busy being all in a lather over courting Donnic, as I recall. Copper marigolds and all that."

Aveline blushed, then laughed, and fed him a few more spoonfuls of porridge. "All right. So this Feynriel will come to me looking for you. Why did you tell him to look for me? I thought you came here looking for Varric?"

"He knows I'm with you," he answered, avoiding mentioning just how Feynriel knew. Or how he knew Feynriel would be there that day. "Anyway... I need to see him as soon as possible."

The look she gave him then... as if she thought he meant 'before I die'. Which was in part what he meant, he had to admit. But not in the same way she thought he meant it.

"All right," she said softly. "I'll see he's brought here as soon as he shows up. Are you sure he'll be here today?"

"Yes. He came in by ship this morning," he told her.

She frowned at that, looking a little puzzled, but questioned him no further, merely feeding him the rest of his breakfast before going off to ready herself for another day at work.

The day seemed to drag by at a snail's pace after that, as he lay in bed with no company but his own thoughts. How long, he wondered more than once, for Feynriel to make his way from the docks all the way up to Hightown, to reach Viscount's Keep and make his way to Aveline's office. For her to bring him here. He paced out the route in his head multiple times; so long a distance from the docks to Lowtown. Though Lowtown to the steps up to Hightown. Up the seemingly endless steps – whose number he still knew by heart, even after all these years – and through Hightown market, and up further steps, and around corners...

The angle of light through the windows told him the sun was high in the sky, almost noon, when he finally heard the faint sound of the front door opening and closing, and then footsteps approaching up the stairs. He was struggling to push himself upright when the door opened, admitting Aveline, a faintly perplexed expression on her face, and Donnic. And behind them...

He didn't look quite the same as he did in dreams. Less androgynous, for one thing. The hair was dull with dust and salt crystals, caught back in a messy braid, the skin under his eyes darkened with exhaustion. He did not look like he'd eaten well in a long time; he was skinny, the bones of face and wrists and hands pushing up against his skin, the long lean muscles from hard work all clearly delineated, not an ounce of excess flesh anywhere on him. Tanned, yes, with a dusting of freckles on cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He smiled tiredly as his eyes met Fenris'.

"Feynriel," Fenris said, voice thick with relief. "You came."

Feynriel's smile widened. "I told you I would."

Aveline hovered, eyes watchful and hard with suspicion, as Feynriel examined Fenris. The mage peered deep into Fenris' eyes, peeled back his lip to peer closely at his teeth and gums, then picked up one hand, flexing the fingers gently before lifting Fenris' arm out and to the side, feeling carefully along it. His fingers stroked along the blurred lines of the brands, digging almost painfully into the skin around the joints, and probing carefully into the scant flesh under Fenris' arm. He lowered the arm, then touched Fenris elsewhere, scarcely any more gentle – feeling the sides of his neck, pressing into Fenris' belly in several spots, and then, with a single muttered word of apology, slipping his hand under the nightshirt Fenris wore to probe Fenris' inner thighs, and briefly cup his balls. They both turned about equally red with embarrassment at that. Aveline made a strangled sound, but forbore protesting.

Last of all, Feynriel moved to the foot of the bed, turning up the sheet to reveal Fenris' feet. He examined them carefully, frowning a little as he flexed them, then ran a fingernail hard up the sole of one, smiling briefly as Fenris reflexively twitched away from the pressure.

Fenris bore it all stoically, not liking to be touched but knowing this was all necessary, for the mage to judge his health, and the progress of his deterioration.

Feynriel restored the sheets, and came around to sit back down on the edge of the bed again.

"Well?" Fenris asked.

"It's not too late, if that's what you're asking. There may be some little amount of permanent damage, but most of what's occurred so far can be repaired. I think I know what to do to fix the worst of it, anyway..."

"You think?" Aveline interrupted. "You don't know?"

Feynriel turned and looked up at her, still calm. "Fenris is unique, and therefor so are his problems. I have read everything there is about lyrium warriors – and precious little remains of the original ancient lore, or of Danarius' more recent notes – and quite a lot about the effects of lyrium poisoning, and what can and cannot be done about it. I know there are some things I can definitely heal; the rest..." He paused, and shrugged. "All I can do is try. It will work, or it will not."

"I will be no worse off, either way," Fenris said. "Aveline... I will die if he does not try. If he tries... I may still die. Or perhaps I will live. I am willing to let him make the attempt."

She frowned down at Feynriel, then turned to look at Donnic. He was leaning against the wall by the door, arms folded across his chest. He straightened up, and shrugged. "Succinct, but you know he's right, Aveline – what other chance does he have? This is not something you nor I can fix," he pointed out, then sighed. "I'm going to the kitchen to make lunch; I'm sure we could all use something to eat." He looked at Feynriel. "If you'll come with me, I'll show you where you can wash and change, if you'd like."

Feynriel smiled tiredly, and rose to his feet. "Thank you," he said, retrieved his travel-worn pack from the floor, and followed Donnic out of the room.

Aveline sat down on the edge of the bed, taking Fenris' hand into hers. "You're sure about this? He's a mage!"

Fenris snorted. "Yes. But who else could possibly help me? What is wrong with me is far beyond the skill of any herbalist or bone-setter, Aveline. And... I trust him, I think. At least to do his best to heal me; he wishes my help, and he can hardly have that if I am dead."

Aveline lowered her head, jaw setting. "All right," she said reluctantly. "If you're sure."

"I am sure of very little any more," Fenris said. "That I am dying, yes. That there is nothing else that might save me – most probably. That I have been very lucky in my friends – always," he said, and squeezed her hand.

She cried then, a little, something she almost never did. He stayed silent, simply holding her hand and waiting it out. "All right," she said finally, snuffling mightily and then blotting her eyes dry with a corner of her bandana. "We'll try this, I suppose. I just hope it works!"

"So do I," Fenris told her, and smiled.