Thanks for reading/reviewing/following so far. We're at the halfway mark now, and there are plenty of deaths to come.
Fenris is a ton of fun to write. He and my Hawke need more best friend-type adventures.


For nearly a full week, rain has pelted the city of Kirkwall, not just a faint mist or casual on-off sprinkle, but an unrelenting torrent of water as if the clouds themselves are angry and the cold droplets of water are their artillery. All around the city, families huddle under blankets, cloaks, or second layers of clothing, methodically tending to fireplaces in an attempt to stay warm. Vast puddles have all but swallowed Kirkwall's streets, turning cobblestone and dirt paths into muddy, ankle-deep rivers, and many people whispered about flooding in the lower parts of the city.

Few citizens litter the street and those that do prefer to dart from canvas eave to eave in an ultimately futile attempt to stay only slightly damp. Vendors have all but abandoned their trade, the City Guards were few and far between, and there was nary an animal in sight. Even the bandits have reportedly given up their nightly prowling.

Undeterred, Fenris stalks through Hightown. He does not dwell on his surroundings, nor is he disturbed by the chill or the rain. He is aware, certainly, but barring an attack by some simpering fool, his peripheral vision does not matter.

As Fenris passes through the street leading to the Viscount's Keep, he slows his pace fractionally. A man stands directly to his left underneath the wide eave of the Torn Barrel's roof. The cloaked man spots Fenris almost instantaneously and begins babbling about his so-called cure for the coldsickness that spreads through Kirkwall faster than idle gossip or the fake pouches of Andraste's ashes that spring up periodically.

Fenris sneers, but pays the man no extra attention and continues on. The abomination, the preachy one, Fenris clarifies for himself quickly, was always whining about swindlers and their fake potions. When he wasn't whining about the mages, of course, and their freedom. Frankly, Fenris still had no idea why Hawke put up with the mage's garbage.

At the foot of the stairs leading to the vacant Keep, Fenris can't help but come to a stop. There is an unmoving shadow intruding on the Hawke Estate's roof. Though the dense rain makes details difficult to see, Fenris is certain that the shadow is not a natural facet of the roof. Eyes locked on the shadow, Fenris creeps closer. The shadow does not move, not even in the wind. Fenris frowns. Perhaps he is wrong and it is a statue after all?

Lightning flashes and in that brief instant, Fenris' suspicions are proven correct. The shadow is indeed an intruder. He has seen it, but it apparently has not seen him. It is in for a surprise.

Fenris circles around the Estate quickly and quietly, coming to a rest under a series of window sills and ledges he knows will allow a nimble person passage up the grand Estate and onto the roof. Hawke had spent days on end up there after the murder of her mother, flinging empty bottles at passerbys and shouting obscenities at the guards.

Navigating the stone blocks and chimney ledges is easy in fair weather, but the rain ensures each step must be carefully planned. Despite the loud clatter of raindrops, he is careful to keep his footsteps silent. Fenris takes longer than he would have liked to reach the front of the Estate roof. Mere footsteps away from the oblivious intruder, Fenris entertains the notion that the shadow is less intelligent than he previously thought: he is no rogue and his stealth abilities are awkward at best and this is Hawke's house. She and the abomination spent most evenings in the Hanged Man or at home. Hawke's skills were legendary, and the mage had proven difficult to overcome as well, as much as Fenris was at loathe to admit it. And even if Hawke was not home, the full-grown Mabari Warhound was.

Still, foolishness had never been an adequate excuse in the past, and it would not do now. Especially not now. Fenris lurches forward suddenly, fist glowing a bright blue.

His clenched fist stops just inches before hitting the shadow's centre. The glow of the lyrium in his skin lights up the familiar cloth of the intruder's garb. Water has darkened the fabric to a deep red and the added blue light makes the cloth appear as if dipped in blood.

Fenris lifts his gaze upwards. The Sacred Heart, an amulet freely given in their last encounter with Bethany and the Grey Wardens, and its thick silver chain is faintly visible upon her neck. Her unbound, dark hair hangs in soaked, limp, thick strings. Fat raindrops stream down her pale forehead, over the bridge of her nose, over high cheekbones, down a sullen cheek, around her lips before dripping steadily from her chin.

"Hawke?" he presses. The unspoken question "what are you doing?" hangs in the air.

Hawke lifts tired, heavy eyes to look straight into his and only then does she blink. Fenris watches her blue eyes widen slowly, as if time itself has slowed down, and her features shake in surprise.

"Fenris," she acknowledges after a long minute.

Fenris knows instantly. Something has happened. Women like Hawke didn't sit on their roofs, dressed only in a single layer of cloth in the pouring rain, without pulling something unpleasant on innocent bystanders, for no good reason. Something in the back of his mind grumbles.

"You are troubled," Fenris says instead of pressing his friend with questions.

Pain flashes through Hawke's face and she screws her eyes shut tightly.

Fenris frowns and he continues his subtle interrogation. "You are injured?" he asks.

Strangely, she chokes out a strangled gasp, and the lack of any of her usual humour indicates just how dire the situation is. "They found Anders."

Hawke shakes, as if convulsing. "He couldn't—I didn't—" she stutters. Finally, she finds a firm voice half-wracked with a sob and blurts out, "They made him Tranquil."

He says nothing for a moment. Words whizz through him in an accelerated flurry. Insincere condolences press on his lips, but when he opens his mouth he can only hear himself utter a single word: "Good."

She takes a deep, shuddering breath—no doubt party from the cold and mostly out of rage, though when she speaks again, there is only pain.

"After Father, then Carver, and Bethany, and then... Mother," she says as if even speaking the words were a great difficulty, "I promised myself I would not let anyone else down. I promised myself I would save one person, after all my failures, just one."

Fenris barely represses a sneer. "Do not fool yourself, Hawke, the mage was already lost."

Hawke glares at him, anger and anguish visible again. "Even the blind fool can find his way out of the darkest cave, given time and providence," she quotes quietly, who, Fenris did not know.

"Perhaps not all mages are lost," Fenris amends, "Perhaps some can be redeemed. But he could not. The demon—Justice—Vengeance had already consumed him, even before your first meeting."

Hawke's eyes focus on a spot in the distance past Fenris' head.

"You knew this, Hawke. You've seen it. We all have. At least now, he will not be a danger: to you, or anyone else, or even himself."

Face firmly etched with impassiveness, she shifts her line of sight to look directly into his eyes, and says, "He fears—feared being made Tranquil more than anything else. Not death. Not torture. Tranquility."

Her lips stop moving, but Fenris hears her continued monologue in his head. 'He had hopes and dreams. He had fears. He was as much a human as you or I. Perhaps even more than you, insert-joke-about-Fenris'-elven-nature-here.' Hawke always had a way of saying more than the audible words she blunders out.

He sees the hints of a plan in her. Her pale fingers twitch where her dagger would normally be sheathed. Her mouth draws into a thin, determined line, the same as when she faces a particularly agile enemy. Her feet shift slightly, getting a firmer foothold on the slippery tile and just for a moment she flickers into nothing more than an actual shadow. She's going to do something fool-hardy and suicidal, storm the Gallows probably, because for all her mage-apologist faults, when someone hurts one of Hawke's she fights back and makes them pay. And whether they knew it or not, the Templars had just taken the last remnants of Hawke's hopes for a normal-ish life.

Fenris finds her eyes. "Do not rush into battle, Hawke. Take us with you when you do."

When, not if.

Fenris waits a moment before adding, "Swear it."

Hawke nods mutely. "I swear."

Even without following the movement of her eyes, or the slight tick in her drenched eyebrow, or what the lack of any sarcasm whatsoever surely meant, he knew she was lying and he knew he couldn't do anything about it.