Author's notes: Sooo, this one is a leetle bit longer than the last ;) I wanted to split it, but didn't know where, so... here it is, in all its glory. Thank you people for all the reviews, follows, favs... you're great :D

Note on my author's notes: I realized after I posted the last chapter that it should be satisfied with. Derp.

Disclaimer: See ch.1.

Witch

"Here we are." They were the first words any of them had spoken since their fight.

The witch had led them, all day, through territory that was becoming increasingly wild and harsh, the forest receding, making way for bracken and then dry grassland dotted with rocks. It reminded him very much of the hills around Kirkwall with their forbidding air, the cliffs that not only looked haunted but were so, in all actuality.

This place did not feel haunted, but it certainly looked as if it should be.

They had been climbing steadily, and had now reached a sort of plateau above the treeline. Walking there in bright sunlight for everyone to see, Fenris had felt uneasy at first, but soon noticed that he needn't have worried. There was no one around for miles, nothing moving except the wind and a bird of prey far, far up among the scattered clouds. Not a human, not even sheep grazing on the hard, dry grasses.

There was also more cover than he'd thought at first. One time he'd stopped on a low rise, a bare stony mound among the otherwise flat landscape, and crouching low, had examined the horizon warily. When he looked again at where the witch had been only a moment before, he found her suddenly gone, and alarm flooded his body, almost making his markings flare. Up here, and exposed like he was (or felt he was) that would have been a bad idea, and biting his teeth together, he fought the reflex back under control.

But he did not let go of the sword hilt as he straightened and cautiously approached the spot he'd seen her last, and it almost cost the witch her head when she reappeared out of the grass like conjured there by a demon, peering up to him from a small, but rapidly widening ravine that had been well nigh invisible from where he'd stood before. She stared at him with wide eyes until the blue-white glow of his lyrium had died down reluctantly, then nodded her head down the ravine and led on without a word.

But he did catch her looking back over her shoulder from time to time as they flitted from ravine to dell to rocky outcrop.

They had stopped once in the morning, with Merrill offering to share her provisions with him, which he'd declined, and again at about midday when they found a small spring trickling from the ground, only to disappear again a few yards on. Again, he pretended not to notice the bread and dried meat held questioningly out to him, and saw her lips press together in this way she had. Feigning ignorance to that, too, he moved over to drink deep from the spring, then sat watching the sky, leaning back against the rock with arms crossed until she got up to move on.

That look irked him. It was Leandra gazing at him with Merrill's eyes...-

"Your friend?"

"Yes, Mother. Don't worry, he won't smash anything, he only looks like he might"- to him, with a wink- "We'll be gone in a minute, I just want to ask Carver if he'd like to come along"- to her mother- "Carver! Action's on, do want to- oops..."- ripping the door to what was presumably the bedroom open, to an indignant squawk from within, closely followed by an exclamation of "What in the Blight do you think you're doing?!"

Her peal of laughter does not do anything for the younger Hawke's temper, and through the argument that logically ensues, Fenris stands stoically waiting in the doorway, trying to act like he doesn't feel Hawke's mother's eyes lingering on him, just like they might linger on a wounded dog or a beggar found outside her door. There is pity, and there is shock, rolled into one, and when finally he can't stand it anymore and turns his head toward her with the slightest hint of a snarl curling his lips, she rips her gaze away, blushing visibly, and bustles off, trying manfully to busy herself with the dishes, clean and dry as they are.

What it is that has shocked her so, he never finds out; but then, he does not wish to.

The memory was so vivid that for a second he actually forgot where he was. A moment later, he was jarred back into reality as his foot set on thin air and he stumbled down gracelessly over a shallow step the rain had washed out and drew the witch's startled gaze. Without deigning to notice it, he straightened and walked on and ignored the burning of his eartips, as well as the odd feeling the sudden flash of remembering had left behind. A sort of... hollowness.

And now they were here. He could see the proud, sad, giddy little smile on Merrill's face as she pointed down the largest ravine they had yet passed. In fact, it was almost a valley in itself, washed out long years ago by turbulent water masses, of which, now, only remained a modest spring that started at one end of the valley, crossed it in its entirety, formed a pool at its end, to be swallowed by the chalk stone once again and disappear from human or elvhen knowledge.

Wind had blown in dirt into the sheltered little vale, where it settled, accumulated and built the bed for the lushest grass for miles around, a little forest of bushes, and one fairly enormous tree.

He looked at it more closely. Near the ground to about elven height, the thick trunk was painted in whites and reds, just like...

"Our vhenadal. The heart tree of the valley of meeting." Merrill spoke softly. He looked aside at her. The sadness was now plain as day, and he didn't have to ask why.

One other thing, however... "Why have you brought us here? Is it safe?"

The words took a moment to register with her, until her wistful look was withdrawn from the sight before them, and came to rest on him. She blinked once, then twice, and then only did she seem to realize what he'd been asking.

"What...? Oh. It's the safest place I know. The Shems don't know of it, and the clans normally only come here at certain times. There won't be a meeting this year, so we can lay low here for a long time. There's food, and water, and the caves have been made habitable. It's quite comfortable, you'll see." She tried a little smile on him, that died unborn in the face of his unchanging blank look.

"You're sure.", he said, deadpan. It wasn't a question.

"Would I have brought us here otherwise?" She bristled a little, and he felt oddly tickled somewhere inside that he still had this effect on her. It made him want to push her a little more, just to see...

He clamped down on the childish wish. What did he care?

"Come. You'll see." And with this, she turned brusquely away and moved on down the slope that descended steeply into the ravine, reaching the bottom while he was still surveying his surroundings.

The path she had taken was well visible, meandering down in narrow loops, although grass was beginning to encroach on its edges. It had plainly been trodden often and by many feet, but not recently. Where the ground grew level, it divided into a network of smaller, narrower paths that wound throughout the entire valley, as far as he could see. Here and there those little pathways would end at an opening in the rock wall; he could count six from where he stood, but the heart tree blocked part of his view, and how many more there were behind it, he couldn't say. The whole place was quite beautiful, the rock showing all the signs of having been carved by the forces of water, forming little dips and shadowed overhangs, all smoothly rounded, and glittering in every color stone could possibly have, vein laying over vein, broad bands of white, and red, and green, and narrow lines of blue or off-white or silver.

Fenris had thought he had forgotten how to appreciate beauty. Now he found this wasn't so. It took his breath away. No wonder the Dalish had chosen this place.

An impatient call sailed up to him from below. Looking down, he spied the witch crouching close to a gap in the rock, her crossed arms plainly visible even from here. He could just imagine the impatient scowl that went with it, and scowled himself.

Was this really such a good idea? Or was he hastening toward some catastrophe? Who could say if the witch had been speaking the truth? He had never clapped eyes on her would-be pursuers, could not know if her story was true and her intentions as unselfish as they appeared.

Who knew what was waiting down there for him?

The knife catching the light with a flash as she hurls it into the trees...

He moved forward without thinking.

The witch stood impatiently tapping her foot beside the entrance of the- presumed- cave, but her face broke into a smile as she watched him approaching her. His eyebrows contracted in a frown, but the damper this put to her apparent good mood was moderate now. She moved a step back and gestured at the small hole to her left.

By the inviting sweep of her arm it might have been a grand palace she was beckoning him into, not a damp, narrow passage through stone that might or might not lead somewhere. From outside, and with night gathering fast, it was impossible to tell.

He straightened back up and turned his eyes towards the witch. "You first."

A moment's hesitation. Fenris narrowed his eyes. If this was a trap after all...

"Let's hope no spiders have gotten in. I hate spiders. The small ones aren't so bad, but do you remember those we encountered in the Bone Pit mines? I still dream of them. Urghs..." She shuddered violently for a moment, then went down on her knees and disappeared into the hole at a crawl.

Fenris watched her get swallowed by the stone, pausing to consider the narrow entrance. There was no room there to use his sword if things went awry. Indeed, there was hardly enough space for him to crawl through with it still sheathed on his back.

He was beginning to have seconds thoughts about the impulse that had made him follow her here.

"Are you coming?", the witch's voice called from within. It had a faint echoing quality to it. So there was a cave behind this passage, one at least big enough to create an echo. That was good, as far as it went.

Taking off his sword, he held it in front of him and wriggled through the entrance. His lyrium tattoos hummed, emanating a hazy glow in the claustrophobic embrace of the stone as all his senses went on high alert. A little too late did it occur to him that this was just the place to crush him with her earth magic, if the witch had any such intentions, and the thought made bright flashes of blue race along his markings, lighting up the walls like dancing blue lightning.

Finally he was through, uncrushed, and straightened hurriedly, brushing down his jerkin and re-sheathing the sword, and trying to look calm. Hopefully the witch hadn't noticed his nervosity-

"Oh, you made light for us. How practical. Thank you."

He couldn't help it; he covered his face with his hands. She didn't notice the gesture, already on her way further in, chattering as she went.

"The other caves are all connected, and if any spiders have gotten in we won't know until they're on us. This one is seperate, though, so there's less risk of that. We lived here when our clan came to the last meeting, before the journey to Sundermount..." Her voice trailed off.

She had now reached a portion of the cave where piece of wall jutted inward, noticed by the lack of light that he hadn't followed her, and turned round to wait for him. Slowly, he stalked after her; she needn't think that he was in any hurry to catch up.

By the time he turned the corner, she was already bustling around in the room behind it, checking it for spiders, of which there weren't any; at least, not of the big, man-eating variety; disappearing from sight a moment to come back with an armful of firewood and kindling, arranging the wood on one side of a rather big fireplace, and proceeding to light a fire. Fenris was left to survey the cave in peace, surprised at how habitable it appeared. The floor was rock, all loose stones having been cleared away. Niches had been cut into the stone all around- or natural niches had been enlarged- to make sleeping places for a dozen or more people. In large nets hanging from the ceiling, sturdy barrels were stored well out of reach of any earthbound beast. And there was a large supply of dry firewood stocked at one end of the cavern. The Dalish were well supplied.

He caught sight of a low stone wall to the right, and cautiously moved towards it, peering over it into a dark hole from which sounded the trickle and chatter of running water. A kind of natural well, walled off to prevent anyone from toppling into it. There was no way to tell how deep it was.

Then, when orange firelight started to spill around the walls, he noticed that he was standing there glowing still like a mobile light source. Startled, and rather disgruntled with himself, he let the lyrium-light die abruptly. Merrill looked up at that, smiled at him, and he scoffed and started walking around the cave as if in inspection. Finding a spot from where he could watch most of the cavern, including the entrance, he settled down there, crossed his legs under him, his arms over his chest, but kept his sword within easy reach.

Lie low for a day, then move on, that was the plan. And this time, there would be no following.

The moment he woke with a start was the moment he realized he'd been asleep.

Cursing soundlessly at himself for his foolishness, he willed the racing of his heart to slow down and looked around warily through his long hair. The witch hadn't noticed his moments- hours?- of vulnerability.

In fact, she wasn't even here.

Now this could be a good thing, or a very bad thing.

Hurriedly, he grabbed his sword and pushed to his feet. Not a second too late; just then, a sound of scrabbling by the entrance drew his attention. He crossed over to it with a few fast, silent strides and stood there, ready.

When he saw what caused the disturbance, his fingers twitched, but the impulse to separate Merrill's head of slightly damp (?) hair from her neck passed in an instant.

She saw him standing there, looked up and smiled her usual bright, slightly embarrassed smile. Fenris' eyes swept down her slight form, and the embarrassment deepened. His own.

"I thought it was a good opportunity to take a bath. I hate being this dirty, but there was no help for it back in the town. Elves there are all dirty. I don't see how they can stand it. There's just no need to be this unclean..." Blithely and happily unaware of what was going on in his head, she moved back to the fireplace to arrange her bundle of wet clothes so they would dry in the heat. The shift she wore instead had a damp look to it as well, but she seemed to mind the discomfort as little as she did his incredulous stare.

Right... he had forgotten about this certain peculiarity of hers. Immune to innuendo and oblivious to hints, most notably of the sexual kind, but not limited to it, she could never comprehend why the sight of her naked or half-dressed after a bath would discomfit the males of Hawke's party, make Isabela whistle and grin, Aveline blush, and Hawke herself sigh and drape something over her, most often part of her own clothing. And she would insist at scrubbing herself in any river, pond, or what water she could otherwise find, after every fight they'd gotten into.

He ripped his gaze away from her slender legs, bathed in flickering firelight. Goggling at the little witch's body had been Carver's part, and he had no intention about following him on this path.

At least he had the consolation that he wasn't sputtering and choking as yet.

"Are you hungry? Have to be, since you refused my food all day... see here, I found mushrooms, and there were berries on the bushes, and nuts, too. Maybe you'll like them better than the meat once I've cooked something out of it, it was a little tough, I'll admit. You could go take a bath in the meantime, the water's cold, but that's nice and refreshing too..."

"Witch." It came out as a growl that silenced her instantly. "Stop. Babbling."

He could see her bite her lip, then she put the woven basket, out of which she had been sorting the aforementioned spoils of her foraging, down, stood, and walked up to him. Hands on her hips (which pulled the wet fabric of her shift tight around her lithe body, showing every curve, and displaying the little nubs of her nipples plain for him to see- he did his best to look into her eyes, instead of anywhere else, feeling suddenly cornered), she drew herself up to her unimpressive full height, and stared him straight in the eyes.

"Bathe.", she commanded. "You look like a tramp. And smell like one, too. I'll have food ready when you come back. By the way- your hair badly needs a cut, as well." The look on her face was pure Hawke in that moment, and Fenris found himself unable to do anything but stare, flabbergasted. But then it melted into Merrill's own, bright little smile and she added, "Or I'll comb it out for you and leave it this way, maybe tie it back... It would suit you, I think...make you look rogueish, just like Varric." And she giggled.

That giggle broke the spell. Embarrassed beyond words, Fenris swiveled around on his heel wordlessly- anything to escape- only looking back over his shoulder once to inform her, "I'll not let you anywhere near me with a knife, witch."

As he ducked into the narrow tunnel, he just barely caught her soft answer.

"But you already have."

And she was right. Damn her to the Void, she was right.

Naked and waist deep in the ice-cold water, he brushed his hair back with both hands, noticed, for the first time, and with no little disgust at himself, just how filthy and matted it really was, and immersed himself in the small pool. The cold embrace shocked him to his core for a second; then it turned into cool, calming caresses, soothing away a pain he hadn't known existed. Just like the constant pain his lyrium markings caused him, it had receded into the background, always there, but only noticed at moments like these, when something out of the ordinary brought it to his attention.

Something, or someone.

"Serah Fenris."

"Don't 'serah' me." He turns from the window he has been looking out of, watching while not seeing the rain outside splashing on the cobbles. Attempting, but not succeeding in washing away all the blood that covers the city's streets."What is it you want?"

Ser Cullen steps fully into the little room, the same one Fenris has woken up in after his fight with Hawke, which he has spent the weeks of his recovery in, which he has hardly left for all the time he has spent at The Gallows. He can't bear the thought of a world outside, a world without the very same people who have made his life worth living for six years. People who stood with him against Hadriana, against Danarius; people he has, in the end, betrayed, and been punished for this betrayal. By still being alive despite everything.

Now he is watching Cullen close the door behind him. The newly made Knight Commander looks weary, the ever-present dark circles under his eyes even darker, his skin paler, and his cheekbones more prominent than he remembers. He looks up to Fenris where he sits on the windowsill.

"I have come to ask you to join the Templar order." Never one to hedge around an issue; that is part of the reason he likes the man. "I will not deceive you, we need reinforcement badly. This war is draining our forces. Men die, men desert, and too little come to swell our ranks. A powerful warrior such as you would be a valuable asset to us, in actual battle, as well as on the training grounds, and your presence among us would lift morale; something else we are badly in need of."

He falls silent and watches Fenris' reaction, waiting for an answer.

Fenris lifts en eyebrow. "Lift morale... me. An elf. Former slave. I don't think so, Templar."

"And a former brother-in-arms to the Champion. A man who has experienced mage cruelty firsthand, and has the scars to show for it." Cullen approaches the small writing desk beneath the other window and sits down heavily on the stool beside it, exhaustion showing plainer than ever in the way he sags into the seat.

Fenris can feel the corner of his mouth twitching into a small, humorless smile. "At least you do not think to coddle me with words. But do you really think the Templars would rally to such a symbol? There are those who call me turncloak, and rightly so; worse, a turncloak who chose the losing side."

"There are those." The Knight Commander accedes with a slight nod. "But not many. Most of them will sing the praise of your courage in doing what was right, even though it meant going up against your allies.

I don't need your answer right away. But I would be grateful to you if you at least thought about it."

Cullen is not yet halfway out the door when Fenris knows his answer.

"No."

The man stops, hesitating; but he refrains from prying him with questions. He gives a curt nod and exits the room, and that is the last Fenris sees of Knight Commander Cullen.

He'd left Kirkwall this same day, taking nothing but a sword from the Templar armory, and what money he had saved. The rest was history; less than glorious history, dominated by drunken nights and hungover days, more brawls over petty things in dingy taverns than he cared to (or could) remember, until he finally killed someone and had to run for his life.

Stumbling about in a nightmare born of fever, Merrill's knife had been an offer of a way out. She represented everything he hated, in this one moment in time; and he wanted so badly to have been right all along. Mages, the bane of this world. Magic, a plague beyond curing. He'd wanted it to be a mage who killed him, as it was a mage who enslaved him, robbed him of his memories and made him a pet; as it was a mage who pretended to be his friend and ally only to betray him. Just so he would have been right.

With a whoosh and a gasp, he resurfaced from the pool. His lungs burned; taking deep swallows of the sweet air, he banished his hair from his eyes, gathered up sand from the bottom of the little stream, and began to rub down meticulously, gritting his teeth every time the rough kernels of it scraped over his markings. But he went on until every last part of him burned as if scalded. He threaded his fingers into his hair and carded through it roughly, wanting it to hurt.

His stomach was a tight knot of feelings indecipherable to him, guilt, loss and loneliness, hatred, disdain and despair, and it was twisting around inside, bubbling into anger. He wanted that anger. Anger was good; it was easy. He wished for it, willed for that nest of snakes to turn into the tightly clenched fist that was so comforting in its familiarity.

But it didn't.

For once in his life, his anger abandoned him. It came apart at the edges, unraveling like a torn sheet.

Who was he that he dared feel betrayed?

Turncloak.

Who was he that he dared bask in his own bitterness?

Hypocrite.

His hands fisted in his hair, and he went to his knees in the shallows, the stones digging into his feet and shins and pressing painfully against his kneecaps. What had he been doing all this time but run, truly? Run from the consciousness of his own betrayal, trying to tell himself that it was he who had been wronged.

Wallowing in self pity.

His palms hit the surface of the water with a muted splash and dug into the pebbles beneath. Anger flared up at last, but it was anger at himself. What a pitiable creature he had become...

Forgive me, Hawke.

When he returned to the cave in his breeches, with his wet clothing draped over his arm, it was to find Merrill puttering around close to the fire with pots and pans, humming softly to herself. She was still wearing that shift, which mercifully was not clinging wetly to her skin anymore. And there was a soft little smile on her face that froze him in his tracks.

He stood still in the shadows near the entrance, taking in the scene before him. Her unexpectedly deft movements as she chopped up nuts and threw them into the pot, the twirl she gave the spoon between her fingers before stirring the contents of this same pot, the way she shifted to the right while still sitting cross-legged and how she stretched to reach the basket, tipping forward from the hip, and displaying even more of her thighs as the shift rode up.

So entirely unaware was she of her surroundings, so prettily unselfconscious, so happy with the small tasks she was performing that he was loath to intrude upon this small moment. Dawdling there on his spot, watching unseen, suddenly he felt a shift of perspective that would have left him deeply uneasy an hour ago, and still left him breathless as he was:

He looked on her, and what he saw wasn't the mage. What he saw was a girl; a slim, petite elvhen girl with short raven hair and delicate vallaslin tattoos, bathed in firelight, murmuring softly to herself as she sat picking out berries. Telling them a story. Bits of it floated over to him, carried softly along the walls by an almost imperceptible echo.

[*]"Long ago, when time itself was young, the only things in existence were the sun and the land. The sun, curious about the land, bowed his head close to her body, and Elgar'nan was born in the place where they touched. The sun and the land loved Elgar'nan greatly, for he was beautiful and clever. As a gift to Elgar'nan, the land brought forth great birds and beasts of sky and forest, and all manner of wonderful green things. Elgar'nan loved his mother's gifts and praised them highly and walked amongst them often.

The sun, looking down upon the fruitful land, saw the joy that Elgar'nan took in her works and grew jealous. Out of spite, he shone his face full upon all the creatures the earth had created, and burned them all to ashes. The land cracked and split from bitterness and pain, and cried salt tears for the loss of all she had wrought. The pool of tears cried for the land became the ocean, and the cracks in her body the first rivers and streams.

Elgar'nan was furious at what his father had done and vowed vengeance. He lifted himself into the sky and wrestled the sun, determined to defeat him. They fought for an eternity, and eventually the sun grew weak, while Elgar'nan's rage was unabated. Eventually Elgar'nan threw the sun down from the sky and buried him in a deep abyss created by the land's sorrow. With the sun gone, the world was covered in shadow, and all that remained in the sky were the reminders of Elgar'nan's battle with his father-drops of the sun's lifeblood, which twinkled and shimmered in the darkness."

Fenris found himself listening intently, even after he recognized the story for an elvhen one. Where normally he would have scoffed at the teller and derided the tale, he now stood there like a softly dripping statue. It was magic that held him in its thrall. The magic of firelight and a soft voice, as inexorable as a blood spell; and yet he could not fear it. For the first time in his life, he felt at the same time spellbound and at peace.

"Elgar'nan had defeated his father, the sun, and all was covered in darkness. Pleased with himself, Elgar'nan sought to console his mother, the earth, by replacing all that the sun had destroyed. But the earth knew that without the sun, nothing could grow. She whispered to Elgar'nan this truth, and pleaded with him to release his father, but Elgar'nan's pride was great, and his vengeance was terrible, and he refused.

It was at this moment that Mythal walked out of the sea of the Earth's tears and onto the land. She placed her hand on Elgar'nan's brow, and at her touch he grew calm and knew that his anger had led him astray. Humbled, Elgar'nan went to the place where the sun was buried and spoke to him. Elgar'nan said he would release the sun if the sun promised to be gentle and to return to the earth each night. The sun, feeling remorse at what he had done, agreed.

And so the sun rose again in the sky, and shone his golden light upon the earth. Elgar'nan and Mythal, with the help of the earth and the sun, brought back to life all the wondrous things that the sun had destroyed, and they grew and thrived. And that night, when the sun had gone to sleep, Mythal gathered the glowing earth around his bed, and formed it into a sphere to be placed in the sky, a pale reflection of the sun's true glory."

As the story ended and Merrill fell silent, so did her formerly busy hands drop slowly into her lap, her look resting dreamily upon them while seeing things that lay far beyond reality. A sigh left her lips; a sigh that, soft as it was, crossed the distance between them like a bird on the wing, and broke the spell he had been under. Where before he couldn't have moved if his life depended on it, suddenly now he couldn't not move. He tried, but his body wouldn't obey him, taking a step forward and startling the witch out of her daydream. She blinked and looked up, saw him, and flinched. And it felt just like the slap she had given him, only more painful.

He had quite sobered down by the time he arrived beside the fire. Merrill continued picking her berries in silence, looking anywhere but at him; in silence, he spread out his clothes to dry just like she had. Standing there feeling like an uninvited guest, his searching gaze fell on her little knife, and he went to pick it up, planning to give himself that haircut she had mentioned.

But just as he settled down on the floor, Merrill pushed aside her work, and moved without hesitation to cut his hair herself.

[*] Copypasta from the wiki