How to track a lone, peculiar elf in an entire continent? That was the question Damian Hawke was confronted with before he as much as reached Kirkwall's docks. Fenris could have travelled west, east, north or south, or anywhere in between. Which direction was he supposed to go in first? Time was of the essence, had been slipping mercilessly since the day he had left the elf in Aveline's dubious care. He wanted to waste no more of it, could not afford to. Fenris could not afford to. With every day that passed, the chances of some horrible scenario coming true grew, until they would form and insurmountable, unavoidable mountain.

The question was, then, where was Fenris most likely to have gone?

There was one place he was certain Fenris would avoid. Even with Danarius dead as dirt the Tevinter Imperium remained the land of suffering and unimaginable wrongdoing. Damian had seen the fear, the pain, when he had pushed to journey to Tevinter for a remedy for the markings' instability. Considering how their stay there had gone down, he could not imagine Fenris wanting to get even near the border. North could be scrapped from the possibilities.

Still leaving three options. Ruling out more was difficult, and not just because dismissing the idea of Fenris travelling to Tevinter was so easy. It required facing what Fenris' quiet departure could mean, what else he might want to avoid.

If the elf had gone West, it would have taken him closer to the Western Approach, to Adamant Fortress. Closer to Damian. West was the direction he wished Fenris had headed in more than anything. To believe that his love had been moving towards him and they had just happened to miss each other, because what were the odds of their paths crossing? West could mean something, even when it had been left unsaid, even when it hid beyond the borders of conscious thought. Yet wanting to did not make something more real, nor more likely to happen. If wanting with every inch of his being was enough, Fenris would be right here with him, within reach to touch, to draw into an embrace. He could not allow himself the comfort of an illusion, regardless of how fragile and fleeting it was. Finding Fenris was the most important, for the sake of Fenris' safety and well-being. For that he had to look at the evidence and accept the injury to his feelings: Fenris had never responded to Damian's letters and had departed from Kirkwall without leaving as much as a note to inform him where he had gone.

Ultimately Damian had to accept that Fenris might have chosen to avoid him as well as the Tevinter Imperium. What that truly meant... No use pondering that just now. Not yet. First to find Fenris, look him in the eye. See for himself that the warrior had fought his way back to his old self. Just search somewhere that was not West.

South held no option besides crossing the Waking Sea to Ferelden. While possible, he could not really picture Fenris' first destination of choice to be Damian's homeland. That made two directions he could cross off the list because of how they were tied to himself. Not exactly the way he preferred thing to be, but going by these assumptions did leave one path to follow: East.

As for what Fenris could be doing with his newfound freedom, there was only one calling Damian could imagine. Whether the elf had gone North, South, West or East, it would be to do one thing.

So Damian had booked passage to Ostwick, first city of note east of Kirkwall, hoping to stumble on news about "incidents" befallen to slavers. Follow the trail of bodies to the person you love, now was that not one fit for fairy tales?

He had never been to Ostwick before. The city seemed more open and welcoming than Kirkwall – not much of a feat, honestly – though less wealthy and equally crowded. Merely watching the bustle of people around him made hope shrivel and sink. What were the odds that Fenris had been here? And if he had, how many of these people had noticed? Who among them had a clue where the elf had gone next?

"Do you think you mattered, Hawke?" He dug his blunted nails into the webbing of scars on his forearm. Fear pulsed through his veins, egging on the despair. Tear it open, let is ease out. Give in to it before it became unbearable. Fix it, somehow. Didn't matter how. He focused on that mild sensation of pain caused by the nails in skin, the discomfort of it. Don't give up. It's too soon to give up. I'll find him. I will.

Without Varric at his disposal to keep tabs on interesting rumors, inns and taverns seemed his best shot at gathering information. If Fenris had passed through or something of interest had happened, these places were most likely to have taken notice. Surely Fenris must have had need for food and lodging.

Prepared to go from tavern to tavern, no matter how seedy, Damian set out. The establishments closest to the harbor turned up interesting tidbits – a ship which had unexpectedly sunk while docked in the harbor, gossip of people who made claims of slaver activity within the very city – but nothing solid about Fenris himself. Followed by the Nightmare's voice, he headed farther into the city, trading the activity at the docks for that of the central market.

It was crowded in the large inn, citizens and travelers alike sitting down to enjoy a midday meal. The balding innkeeper lifted a hand in greeting from behind the bar counter when Damian walked in.

"What can I get you?"

"I'm looking for someone, actually." Damian scratched his beard. "Is there any chance you have seen an elf passing through here? He should stand out: white hair, green eyes, tanned skin with white markings covering his chin, neck, arms, and… well, about everywhere else as well but you probably wouldn't have gotten to see that."

He had expected a shrug, a head shaking "no", or just a negative answer. Maybe the hopeful, desperate part of him dared to bet on a "yes", but a vague, indirect one, like through hearsay, far in the distance, months ago. He had not expected the utterly perplexed stare – complete with slack jaw – he received and which lasted several seconds. He had definitely not expected the man to subsequently turn away, get a piece of parchment folded through the middle from under the counter and push it toward Damian.

He stared back at the innkeeper, then at the note, then back at the innkeeper.

"He left this for you," the damned man finally elaborated.

Damian's mouth dropped, outdoing the dumbfounded look the innkeeper had given him. Not a single reply from Kirkwall, not a word of farewell, but Fenris had left him an actual message here, at an inn in Ostwick? Amazing as that would be, why? Was it a test, a challenge, an invitation?

Gaping like an idiot would not let him find out. He blinked rapidly, breaking from his stunned stupor to snatch the note away. His fingers could not quite decide whether to rush, unfold it as quickly as possible, or treat it with the worshipping care it deserved. He was holding proof that Fenris was alive, that he was sane. And that he was thinking of Damian.

The note was briefer than brief. A single sentence, unmistakably in Fenris' handwriting: Hawke, stop following me.

"Is that elf a criminal or something? Are you hunting him?"

"What?" Completely absorbed by the fact that he was really holding a message from Fenris, Damian was barely aware that the innkeeper had spoken. He could not tear his eyes away from the parchment. "Oh, yeah, yeah. Absolutely."

He was on the right track. This was a lead worth more than piles of dead slavers. He had chosen correctly by heading East. Fenris had been here and he had known Damian would be at some point as well. Why else bother to leave a message? They knew each other down to the core. Knew where one would go, knew that the other would follow. Alright, it might not exactly be the kind of message he had been hoping for. There were a lot of sentences he could think of that he would have preferred to read over "stop following me" but right now he could not afford to be picky. It was enough to know that Fenris had made it through so far. Damian's faith that he would find the elf was strengthened a thousand fold.

"I thought there was something fishy about him," the innkeeper confided. "First showing up alone, then with that little girl, and suddenly he has a boy and a woman too. There was something going on there."

"Hm hm. Wait, what?" Damian looked at the other man. "Little girl? Woman? What is… How would… You know what, never mind that. Do you have any idea where the elf went? Any clue would be of tremendous help. Whether he was travelling by foot or had booked passage on a ship, or did he buy provisions, or–"

"He was heading to Markham."

"He was… I… Are you certain of this?"

"Positive. I overheard him say it loud and clear before he left."

"Ha!" Damian let out a laugh, wild and unrestrained. This was getting better and better. He had truly struck gold A precise destination, free of any doubt! Far more than he had dared hope for. "Oh, this is great! Perfect! Thank you, a thirteen-and-a-half-thousand times over and twice as many blessings upon you. I doubt that kind of number will do more than a thousand blessings, or just one, but still." His face felt like it would split from his grin. "Oh, if you were any more attractive I could kiss you right now!"

The innkeeper looked like he did not know which half of that sentence he should object to most. "Please don't."

"Just as well. When was this? When was he here? Do you remember?"

"A few weeks ago. Two, maybe three."

A few weeks. Only a few weeks behind. Still a while to catch up but it already felt like he was close, so much closer than an hour ago.

"How many days would you say it would take me to get to Markham?"

"Three days on foot if you're fast."

"I can be fast as the wind, my friend. Pack me some provisions, would you? I have to be on my way."

"Fenris is going to die, just like your family, and everyone you ever cared about."

The Void he will, you hideous son of a bitch. He's alive and I'm going to find him.


Markham differed vastly from port cities Kirkwall and Ostwick, although like Kirkwall it relied on a stretch of the Vimmark Mountains to shield its back. Facing north, however, Markham overlooked plains of farmland. Under spring's increasing warmth and the care of farmers, the wheat fields had grown into a green blanket. Come summer the city had to be surrounded by land of gold. If not for a neglected barren patch above which pale, sickly green shimmered in the air, one might have thought that Markham had remained oblivious of Corypheus and his actions.

Despite the dominant part of agriculture in the surrounding landscape, a sizeable part of the city's population was made up of students attending the local university. Walking among so many men and women in their early twenties, Damian felt old for the first time in his life.

The focus on students and research had shaped Markham and made it so different from Kirkwall. Being learned was obviously considered to be of great import. Where Kirkwall's nobility and rich merchants might express their wealth in the straightforward manner inspired by Orlesians – lavishly decorated mansions, the finest clothes and frequent parties and banquets – and Fereldans prided themselves in their fighting prowess, Markham's upper class appeared to devote a lot of coin to expressions of intellect and culture. If the pamphlets announcing plays and expositions plastered on walls were anything to go by, Markham counted three times as many theaters and art halls as Kirkwall at the very least. Bookstores were everywhere, selling yellowed second-hand literature for courses at the university or the most finely crafted leather-bound tomes inlaid with gold and jewels. Herbs and other alchemical components were in equally large supply. Potions or recipes for them promised fertile grounds, shiny, voluminous hair, or – of course – tireless loins. Poets and philosophers shared their art and ideas on street corners, the quality of their work varying as much as their sense of self-importance, albeit not in relation to one another.

Even with his preoccupancy with finding Fenris, Damian had to admit that visiting Markham was an experience in itself. He had no clue why the elf had picked it as his next destination, however. The city hardly seemed like an attractive hub for slavers. Maybe he had only passed through on the way to his true destination. Odds that Fenris had stayed here for weeks seemed slim.

Regardless of the value of education and a sharply honed mind, many students preferred to spend their free time in a simpler manner: the number of bookstores was only rivalled by the amount of taverns and bars. A full afternoon and evening of searching and he had yet to visit them all. Or find one where someone had seen Fenris.

Damian was forced to continue his search the second day. The fear instilled by the Nightmare regained strength once more. Had he been set on a false trail? How long should he stay before concluding Markham was a waste of time?

Then, as unexpectedly as with the innkeeper in Ostwick, everything fell into place.

In an inconspicuous but fairly large tavern in one of the more rundown districts the serving girl pointed to the ceiling after he had rattled off his description of a white-haired elf covered in strange markings. "Upstairs, last room down the hall."

Damian did not ask her who or what awaited in said room. Just looked at her in disbelief, not certain he understood correctly, whether she could really mean what he was thinking, hoping, before hurrying to the stairs.

Six seconds and he was on the first floor. Two doors on each side, one ahead at the end of the hall. It was the only one he saw, the only one worth focusing on. With large strides he moved forward, just short of running. Could it really be…?

His heart hammered in his chest like a madman throwing himself against the confines of his chamber. It seemed unbelievable, more unbelievable and unexpected than the note. That Fenris was right behind that panel of wood, that he had been here for weeks. Waiting. Waiting?

This was it. He was almost there. The floorboards creaked under his feet. A few more steps and he could reach out, open that door. He would get to see–

In his focus on that door at the end of the hall he was oblivious to the last one on his left being ajar. That it opened further as he rushed past barely registered either. Until he was grabbed by the collar and yanked inside. Being spun around in a half-turn by his own speed and shoved backwards culminated in his head hitting the wooden wall. The door slammed shut.

Despite – or maybe thanks to – his disorientation, he was firmly held in place. The arm across his chest was merciless, the hand which had grabbed him clenched around a fistful of his jacket and cloak. They kept him pinned to the wall. With a little extra encouragement from the knife against his throat.

"What do you want from me?"

That voice. That threatening, gravelly voice grounding words almost like a growl. Damian's heartbeat spiked so high it made his knees grow weak and his breath cut short. Slowly his surroundings pulled back into focus. Part of his mind was still on that rush toward the other door, the one at the back of the hall. The remainder struggled to take everything in at once. The careless mess of white hair, the large, mossy green eyes, now narrowed dangerously under thick, scowling black brows.

The knife's sharp edge against his throat.

"Fenris!" He was really here. Fenris was really here. Right in front of him. Alive, breathing – heavily, with flaring nostrils – and alert. Could it be as Aveline had said? Was the elf back to his old self? "What year is it?"

Fenris' arm drove forward, forcing the air out of Damian's lungs. "If anyone asks me that question one more time...!"

He was very, very, very aware of his heartbeat pulsing against the knife, goading, mocking. The irony of a threat that would unleash unbridled power. For a split second madness stirred, welcoming the thrill that reminder of his own fragility brought. Craving the tipping of balance between power and life, not caring how little sense it made when it was his own life hanging by a thread in the equation.

Fenris must have seen it too, or caught at least a glimpse of it, because the pressure on the knife increased, although careful enough to avoid breaking skin yet. "Why are you here, Hawke?"

"I want to know what year it is."

"You did not travel all the way to Markham to hear it's 9:42 Dragon," Fenris retorted with clenched jaws.

"So you know where we are too. Good. What about–"

"Stop fooling around! My mind is my own. Tell me what you want before I decide killing you is the safest option."

"I…" Words dried up in Damian's mouth. All this time he had been clinging to the hope he would get to see Fenris again, dreaming of the moment it would happen, and now that it was actually happening he realized he had no idea what to say. Probably should have thought of something beforehand. "You didn't say goodbye."

"You were not owed one."

"Maybe not, no, but I just… I had to see you," he said quietly. "I had to make sure you're alright."

The scowling lines in the warrior's forehead eased briefly before deepening again. The knife did not move. "I'm perfectly content."

"Good. That's good." Don't focus on the knife. Just don't think about it. Ignore that part. The smell of leather and sword oil dominated up close, masking the musk of sweat, and soap. And beneath that, more subtle than it had once been, with the markings functional, lay the scent that was uniquely Fenris: almost a charge in the air rather than a smell on its own, like lightning captured. A humid summer's night right before a thunderstorm would break loose, lame as that sounded. In an attempt to lighten the mood Damian let out a breathy laugh. "I preferred being up against the wall like this more the first time we did it."

Predictably that joke had the opposite effect: Fenris managed to look even more incensed. His arm against Damian's chest was pushing hard enough to bruise.

Damian swallowed, regretted it when it made his skin scrape over the blade. "Fenris, I know I'm not owed anything but can we talk? Just talk. That's all I want."

Fenris considered for a moment, suspicion and distrust playing behind his eyes. Damian held his breath, as if the decision could be influenced by lack of breathing on his part.

"I'm removing your staff first."

Damian nodded – again the tender skin of his throat over the knife – and raised his hands, palms up, to show he would not resist. The arm across his chest pulled away, letting him angle himself away from the wall so the staff strapped to his back could be taken away.

Staff in his left hand, knife in the right, Fenris took a couple of steps backwards. More the small room did not allow, with a chair and table on Fenris' side and a bed on Damian's. The elf set the staff down against the table, positioning himself in front of it. He did not sheathe the knife.

Rubbing his neck where Fenris' weapon had scratched his skin, Damian could finally get a better look at the warrior. Try as they might, his eyes could not find any signs of weakness, sickness or lack of self-care. Gone was the frail man who had to be encouraged to eat or get dressed. Although his stance betrayed uncertainty, caution, Fenris appeared to be in good physical condition. His shoulders were noticeably broader and his arms, left bare by the olive green and brown leather armor, were almost twice the size they had been since Hawke had had to leave for Skyhold. The familiar white markings ran under well-defined deltoid muscles and decorated bulging biceps.

A smile spread across Damian's face. He could still scarcely believe they were standing in the same room together. "I'm so glad you're alive. I feared I would never find you in time." Almost he moved forward, toward the elf, but he managed to suppress the instinct. Somehow he doubted Fenris would appreciate his proximity. "How have you been?"

The smile was not reciprocated. "Well enough."

"How about your memory? You haven't suffered any lapses?"

"No."

Damian scratched the irritated spot on his neck again, noticed Fenris' eyes narrowing and his posture tensing and quickly stopped.

He was still trying to think of what else to say when Fenris spoke up. "I have not heard about Corypheus' defeat."

"That makes sense, considering he's still kicking around somewhere."

Fenris' brow knitted. "If the darkspawn magister lives, why did you return?"

"Fenris is going to die."

"For you."

Fenris seemed taken aback by that admission. He shifted his weight, momentarily lifting one foot and glancing at the floorboards. Despite the tension Damian's waning smile resurfaced. The motion was just so familiar, so… Fenris.

"I don't need you looking after me, Hawke. Not anymore."

Damian's smile froze, twisted into a grimace before falling completely. "But…"

"You don't get to object," Fenris interrupted.

He fumbled for support, right hand blindly finding the bedpost to hold on to. For this to come as a surprise he would have to be an especially dense kind of fool, and yet the world felt just as it had when Corypheus' Archdemon had caused that bridge at Adamant Fortress to collapse and he had fallen into the nightmare of the Fade. Not for a moment had he gone into this expecting a romantic reunion. Fenris' recovery did not make for a clean slate. All too clearly Damian remembered their exchange the first time the elf's mind had broken free from dementia, even if Fenris did not remember. He had asked about the odds of forgiveness then and, much as he had tried not to think back on that moment of lucidity and how it ended – especially how it ended – he had not forgotten Fenris' answer that he would not have given it a chance. And yet… and yet… Damian could still call forth Fenris' other admission from memory.

"Even after all this I can't find it in me to hate you."

In a way the chance Fenris would not have given willingly had been forced on him. Unable to leave and live independently, he had stayed with Damian, on that slow, long road to recovery. And maybe, just maybe, those years had been enough for… something. Forgiveness. Atonement.

He had not realized how much he had been standing on hope until it was knocked out from under him.

Damian sank down on the mattress. Stared at his hands between his knees. The curled fingers of his left hand he could not extend. The glove hid the thick, raised scar on the palm from view, the sleeve concealed the rest, but he did not need to see the scars to know they were there. Not when evidence of what he was sang in his blood.

"What do you plan on doing?" he asked eventually.

"That doesn't concern you."

"Hunting slavers?"

One of the floorboards creaked as Fenris shifted his weight again. "Perhaps."

Damian's head whipped up. "Alone? Are you mad?! You're just going to take on entire dens of slavers by yourself? What if you get injured, or worse? Or if your memory breaks down again?"

"I don't need to ask your permission."

"You know that's not how I meant it! I'm not trying to forbid you to do anything or give orders, but…" his mind searched feverishly for a way to express himself without sounding woefully self-serving. A way to put into words why it would be such a horrible mistake to let Fenris walk out that door on his own, never to be seen again. "I could be of help. There's safety in numbers, remember? We need to be absolutely certain your mind won't fail anymore. When was the last time you suffered a lapse? It's too soon to tell whether you've truly recovered."

"No."

The single word was like the lash of a whip, a boulder dropped on his head. No arguments, no elaboration, nothing to seize and disprove. Only that one word, barring any and all conversation.

"It's done." Fenris moved to the door, hand already on the handle.

Damian lowered his head when the door opened. He did not want to watch the elf leave. Could not. A lump formed in his throat and refused to be swallowed away. His eyes burned to the point of blurred vision. Was this how it had to end? More than anything he wanted Fenris to be happy, to live the life he deserved but had been denied for so long.

Nightmare's memory laughed. "Fenris is going to die."

But it was so vulnerable, so fragile. So easy to be ripped away in a brief moment, undone by a small mistake.

Silence. No sound of the door fully opening or bare footsteps leaving. His eyes darted up. Fenris was still in the doorway, lingering. A conflicted look on his face that Damian could not fully read.

"Hawke…" Fenris pinched the bridge of his nose before continuing. "I realize you've cared for me while I was unwell and for that I'm grateful. I understand that it must not have been easy. But I must follow my own path now." He pulled the door further open, ready to walk through.

No, no, no. "Can't we just–"

"Do you think you mattered, Hawke?"
Fenris looked back sharply. "Just what? Forgive and forget?" A shake of his head. "What you've done can't simply be forgiven. And I am done forgetting."

"But…" Damian did not know himself how that sentence was supposed to be completed. I don't want you to leave. I can't go on without you. I love you. Nothing would work. Nothing would make Fenris turn back again.

Damian's heart felt like it had moved to his throat while he watched Fenris walk out and the door click shut behind him. He squeezed his eyes shut, pressed the heels of hands against them until colored spots danced across the black of his eyelids. Gone. Fenris was gone again. Right here, so close, and still Damian had been forced to let him slip away. Out of his life to kill slavers or be killed by them. Or captured.

"Fenris is going to die…"

No, no, no, no, no. Fingers clawed through his hair, pulling it from the already mostly undone braid. His breaths followed each other in rapid succession, quicker and quicker, and yet he seemed to remain out of air.

"... just like your family, and everyone you ever cared about."

"NO!" He leapt to his feet, stormed forward and kicked at the chair, as if it was responsible for the entire situation. "Fuck!"

Again he raked his hands through his hair, starting to pace through the small room. No, no, no, it bounced through his head on the rhythm of his footsteps, the beating of his heart. He could not leave Fenris to fend for himself. He could not bear the thought of Fenris being at risk. The elf was strong, yes, and a warrior of renown, but he was also one man. One man who stubbornly insisted on being alone and equally stubbornly insisted on putting his life on the line. Damian could not stop him.

But he could try to limit the danger.

He came to a halt, gaze going to his staff. If Fenris wished to go his own way, Damian had to let him. Yet he did not have to stand directly by Fenris' side to come to his aid. If he could find out where Fenris was headed, who he was hunting, Damian could scout the area first. Take out part of the resistance. Make things a little easier. Or a lot.

Abruptly he grabbed the staff and left the room, not bothering to close the door behind him.