Fenris made no conscious decision to leave the interrogation room. But suddenly he found himself running, flying down the halls, putting as much space between himself and that woman as he possibly could. Dimly, he sensed that Aveline was following him, demanding to know what the suspect had said.

He could not bring himself to answer her.

His flight brought him back to the Detectives' room, the place where he and his colleagues kept their desks. Barely aware of who else was there, Fenris ran to his desk and seized it by the side, his arms and hands flaring blue as the power in his lyrium tattoos exploded, responding to his rage and despair.

The muscles in his arms strained as he flung the entire desk against the wall, knocking over two more desks and sending pens and paper and his phone crashing around the room.

A surprised gasp from the opposite end of the room snapped him out of his blind rage. Slowly, he turned his head to see Naia and Donnic sitting at Donnic's desk with a stack of documents between them. Donnic's gentle, unflappable face was as alarmed as Fenris had ever seen it; Naia's bright eyes were wide with worry.

He turned away so he would not have to look at either of them.

"Detective!" Guard-Captain Vallen snapped from the doorway.

He forced himself to look at her.

"What in the Maker's name did she say to you?" the Guard-Captain demanded, her muscular arms folded across her chest and her expression deeply unamused.

"She claims—" the words caught in his throat and threatened to choke him. "That she is my sister. That my former master sent her. Danarius."

It was the first time in years that he had said that name aloud. It tasted rotten in his mouth.

The Guard-Captain nodded slowly. There was understanding on her face, but also a stern determination. "I'm placing you on leave, Detective. Forty-eight hours, that's all. But you are off this case."

Blood began pounding in Fenris's ears. "Are you mad?" he snarled. "You have no idea what Danarius is capable of. Only I …"

"We will use your knowledge of this man," the Guard-Captain said evenly, cutting off his argument. "We will seek your advice, when we need it. But you are not to have any further contact with the suspect or with this investigation."

"He's a blood mage," Fenris said desperately. "You cannot send Guardsmen to face him."

"Then the Templars will handle him." Aveline's voice was infuriatingly calm. "I will consult them immediately. In the meantime, go home. Collect yourself. I will update you on the status of the case when your leave is over."

Her eyes met and held his. Despite himself, Fenris felt his nerves steady, just a bit, as he looked into her strong-featured face. "They want to use this to get to you, Detective. I will not let them do it."

Fenris could not help a bitter chuckle at that.

A kind thought, Guard-Captain. But it comes years too late.

There was nothing to do but to keep moving.

Fenris managed to find his wallet and keys in the wreck of his desk, and even remembered where he had parked his car, But when he reached it, his hands were shaking so badly that he could not force the key into the car's door. He tried once, twice, a third time. Each time, his shaking fingers missed the lock and dropped the keys onto the ground. When he bent to pick them up for the fourth time, he snarled in frustration, spun, and threw the entire key ring into the distance.

He barely had time to regret that stupid impulse before he saw someone snatch them out of the air. Naia was crossing the parking lot.

Fenris glowered at her, his breath fast and shallow. Of course she followed me. Naia's inability to let her friends suffer alone was one of her more endearing qualities—but right now he wanted nothing more than to be alone.

However, he knew he was in no state to operate the car. He was worse off than if he'd been drunk. Embarrassment and rage warred within him as he tried to summon the sanity to ask for her help.

He could not quite do it. But fortunately, he didn't need to.

"I'd ask how you were if that wasn't such a stupid question," Naia said calmly, holding his keys up in her right hand. "Get in. I'll drive you home."

Fenris's car—a luxury sedan that aggressive neglect had rendered rusted and malfunctioning—stalled three times on the short drive. To his relief, Naia managed to coax the car back into operation all three times. Her adeptness made him wonder if cars had been on the long list of things she'd stolen as a teenager, but asking seemed discourteous. Instead, he focused on directing her through his neighborhood.

"Here. This building. Take a right, you'll see the garage. The key card is behind the visor."

Naia's eyes grew wide as she followed his directions, piloting his car through the magnetic gate and into the generous underground garage. They only grew wider when he told her to park in one of the four spots marked "PH." He could see the question on the tip of her tongue, could see her wrestling with whether to ask how in the Maker's name he could afford to live where he did.

"I am not, strictly speaking, the legal owner of my apartment," he told her as she turned off the engine. "My former master"—he could not bring himself to say that name again right now—"acquired the penthouse of this building some years ago. I found the keys to it, and this car, when his favorite apprentice came for me."

"Hadriana," Naia said, quickly connecting his explanation to a story she'd heard before. "The woman Meredith killed when she was still with the Templars."

Fenris nodded. "Just so." He took a shuddering breath. "When I heard nothing of him for so many years, I hoped Hadriana's loss had kept him from pursuing me further. I was a fool."

Naia turned her head to look at him. "What did she say? The mage, I mean?"

"She claims to be my sister. And for all I know, it may be true. She seems familiar, though I do not remember her." He tightened his fist against his knee. "She says—bah. It does not matter. She invoked his name and that is enough. I knew he could never let me be!" He struck the side of his door nearly hard enough to leave a dent.

Naia was quiet as he struggled to get himself back under control. Finally, she said, "If this place was his, are you sure you should return to it?"

"I am done running," Fenris said roughly. "Fear of him chased me across Thedas. But I have made a life here. I will cede no more ground to that ... " He could not think of a term vile enough for Danarius. "He will not chase me further. Let him come for me, if he dares."

He could see in her eyes that Naia did not approve. But all she said was, "OK. I'd feel better if you let me help you sweep your apartment, though."

Fenris felt too bone-weary to argue.

They rode the elevator in silence; mercifully, no one else joined them along the way. Despite his earlier words, Fenris felt tension mount as they neared the top. Danarius. This place belongs to Danarius. He half expected to see the monster himself when he stepped out of the elevator and into his apartment. But when he flicked on the switch, everything was just as he had left it.

At his side, Naia's jaw dropped. "Maker's balls. Someone trashed your place."

Fenris turned to her, surprised. "It appears untouched to me."

Naia's eyebrows rose halfway up her forehead. "You mean it always looks like this? Wow. I thought I was a slob."

Fenris blinked and looked around. The penthouse was a cavernous space, one of those apartments that had walls for the bathrooms and bedrooms but nothing else. He usually only noticed the view when he entered—the Denerim skyline framed in the floor-to-ceiling windows—but as he looked at the space with new eyes, he realized that he did have a habit of leaving things where he'd last dropped them. The table was covered in dirty laundry, there was a stack of pizza boxes and takeout containers next to the elevator door—I will take those downstairs tomorrow, he told himself for the seventh day in a row—and Naia's eyes were narrowed at a sizeable spiderweb underneath the kitchen cabinets along the wall. A week's worth of dishes were piled in the sink, and more than a month's worth of newspapers sat in haphazard piles around the floor.

"They are not my things. I suppose I have never felt I owe them much respect," he said with a shrug.

Naia's brow furrowed. Fenris readied himself to tell her that whatever she was about to mention was none of her business—but when she remained silent, that was somehow more infuriating. He crossed his arms and glared at her.

"Fasta vass. Just say what you're thinking, Tabris. You think it unhealthy for me to live in a place that belongs to my former master. Go ahead, tell me to move on." He heard the bitterness in his words, felt his voice crack with rage and loss. "Tell me I should forgive and forget what was done to me."

"Shit no," Naia said immediately. "I wouldn't. I'm not sure what you went through is the kind of thing anyone forgives or forgets. But—since you asked—I wouldn't want to live inside a constant reminder of it, either." She paused. "Juliet hasn't seen this place, has she."

It was a statement, not a question. Fenris answered it anyway. "No. I have not brought her here."

And Naia, he realized, had just put her finger on why. This place was from his past—an ugly one that had left him scarred and broken. A past that had nearly robbed him of any chance at happiness with the woman he loved. He did not want to see Hawke inside it.

But he also could not imagine leaving it behind.

"Given what Varania claims, I hardly think now is the time to begin apartment-hunting," he told Naia stubbornly.

His friend cast a thoughtful eye around the room. "Hm. Maybe if we cleaned this place up and got you some new furniture, it would feel more like yours."

"I did not invite you here for decorating tips," he grumbled, though without any real annoyance behind it.

"That wasn't a decorating tip. That was a dating tip. If you insist on living here, Juliet's going to see it at some point. When she does, you should make sure there's not so much garbage on the floor." She wrinkled her nose. "It's really a mood-killer."

Fenris chuckled. "I will take that under advisement."

"Please do." She turned and handed his keys to him. "And … you know that whatever your old friend has planned, you've got new friends now, right? We're right beside you."

Fenris felt the tension between his eyes ease just a bit as he accepted the keys. "I … yes. I suppose I did know that. But thank you for saying it, all the same."

Naia walked Fenris's apartment with him, looking for signs that someone had planted listening devices or magical traps. They did not find anything, but—as Naia could not resist pointing out—Fenris's apartment was a difficult place to look for things.

"What are you going to tell Juliet?" she asked gently, when they were both satisfied that he probably wasn't being spied on.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "The truth. All of it. But I will tell her tomorrow. Tonight I intend to get very drunk."

He could see that Naia had thoughts about that too, but wonder of wonders, she kept them to herself. Instead, she nodded and pushed the button for the elevator.

"Be safe, Fenris," she called over her shoulder as she stepped inside.

He gave her a weary half-smile. "And you, Naia."

After some digging, Fenris found a bottle of red wine in the bottom of a grocery bag he had never unpacked. He threw the spoiled food into his trash can and reached for the wine opener, the one tool in his kitchen that got some regular use. He left the wine glasses in their usual place in the cupboard and walked to his wall of windows, bottle in hand, staring out at the city as he drank.

A memory rose, unbidden, as he shifted the weight of the bottle in his grasp.

"You shall pour the wine for my guests tonight."

Fenris nodded, his eyes cast down to hide his relief. A simple task. Easy to accomplish without provoking one of his master's rages.

A hand seized Fenris's chin and turned his face up, forcing him to look directly into his master's face. Eye contact would be seen as insubordination, and Fenris's eyes swung wildly back and forth, trying to find a safe place to rest.

A chuckle. "Have no fear, my little wolf. I am simply admiring my handiwork. Your appearance will remind my guests of my capabilities—and yours." A possessive finger ran down one of the veins of lyrium in his chin, sending a jolt of pain through him. "I enjoy knowing they are frightened."

With a rush of rage, Fenris flung the bottle into the kitchen. It shattered against the cabinets, drenching the cobwebs and the dirty dishes in a rain of wine.

He closed his eyes and drew in his breath, suddenly unable to look at the room around him. For one irrational moment he blamed Naia—if she had not insisted on seeing this place, perhaps he could have ignored its origins tonight—but that thought came and went quickly.

It is his fault, and his alone.

I am broken because he broke me. I see him every time I look in the mirror, every time I use these markings. Every time I cannot bear it when someone touches me.

I freed myself from his service. But I cannot undo what was done to me. Even if I killed him, I could not rid myself of him.

With a shuddering intake of breath, Fenris went to find another bottle of wine. But on the way across the floor, he tripped over his phone, lying abandoned next to the couch.

He swore as he bent to rub his stubbed toe—and then, without really thinking about it, he picked the machine up and began dialing.

She answered on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Hawke."

"Fenris," she said, a little warily. "How did it go today?"

Fenris could muster no reply. His throat tightened and the hand holding the receiver began to shake, blue light spilling from his tattoos.

Hawke sensed the tension in his silence. "Is everything all right?"

Fenris leaned forward, resting his forehead against the nearby wall "No," he said softly. "It is not. I … I have been suspended."

"What? Why?"

"We caught a mage during an attempted robbery. She … she claims she is my sister. She claims that Danarius sent her." The name tasted rotten in his mouth, and his entire body convulsed and shuddered. "The Guard-Captain pulled me from the case."

He heard Hawke's breath whistle through her teeth. "Shit. Do you want to come over? We can make up the couch."

Helpless frustration ran through Fenris. They had learned soon after their reunion that Fenris could not sleep if he shared a bed; his discomfort with being touched by surprise kept him awake and staring at the ceiling, curled into as small a corner as possible. They had solved this problem, for now, by sleeping in their own apartments. But he couldn't bear the thought of staying the night on her couch, the door between his room and hers a reminder of all the ways Danarius had damaged him.

"No. I would be poor company," he said roughly. "I will see you tomorrow. I will come to your office."

"I'll hold you to that," she said softly, and he could hear the worry in her voice. "Good night, Fenris."

"Good night, Hawke."

Juliet didn't even put down the phone's handset after Fenris hung up. She simply pressed a finger on the cradle to bring back the dial tone, then called Anders.

"I need my magic back. Now," she told him when he picked up the phone.

"Hello to you too," Anders said wryly. "I've told you …"

"This mage thing? It's worse than we thought. A lot worse. Fenris's old master is involved."

"A magister?" Anders' tone was more curious than alarmed. "Huh. What does he want with a bunch of Ferelden cash?"

A good question. "We don't know. But if what he did to Fenris is any indication, it's nothing good. This is someone who would be much better off dead. So, to repeat: I need my magic back. Now."

There was a long, weighty pause on the other end of the line. "Hawke, if you push yourself to cast again before you're fully healed, you risk never returning to your old strength. Are you really willing …"

"Yes," Juliet said without hesitation.

Another pause. "All right. I'll meet you in your office in an hour and we'll start trying some spells."