Despite the news of Fenris' condition worsening Hawke did not visit him until ten more days had passed, relying on Elias and the other slaves to take care of the elf and keep him alive. Damian Hawke did not need to see Fenris to be aware of him getting worse, and the memory of his last time by Fenris' bed was still fresh on his mind. It was unlikely Fenris would be woken up again by Hawke's presence but Damian could not completely shake the fear that was exactly what would happen. After all, in how many stories was the lover's touch able to free the victim from the magic binding him? Only the books never described said lover's head being ripped off immediately afterwards.

Instead Hawke chose to focus on the search for a solution. He entered the Fade every other day to look for Danarius. Casting the blood magic spell more frequently should be doable, but Hawke had decided to be careful and give his body enough time to recover. There was no way to know how long it would take before he succeeded and when that time came he would rather be in decent shape. It was difficult to tell how much blood he would lose each time he went into the Fade too, and creating a great deficit could be dangerous. Magic could heal some of the most gruesome wounds, but only the body itself could replenish lost blood. So he waited a day after each visit, frustrating as it was. Most of that time he spent bent over the translation of Danarius' notes, with the faint hope understanding would suddenly dawn on him.

That did not happen. Nothing happened. Damian was not rewarded with a grand moment of insight which made everything clear and Danarius continued to resist his call even after six journeys into the Fade. In the quiet hours without true purpose the urge to see Fenris again grew, to make sure he was still breathing and not all was lost yet, until Damian made his way to the bedroom on one of his rest days.

This time the two slaves did not need to be told to leave when Hawke arrived. Quietly they sped past him through the open door, their heads bent. Hawke closed the door behind them before he turned to look at the motionless figure on the bed. The markings seemed to glow more brightly than the last time. The blue light radiating from them made Fenris look like a ghost, as if he was fading away and only part of him was still left here. It was such a fitting match to his condition that Damian had to swallow the lump in his throat away before approaching the bed.

"Hello, Fenris," he said softly before dragging a chair to the bed and sitting down. "I know you... probably wouldn't want me here if you were awake, but... I just... had to see you again." He hesitated a few heartbeats but then took Fenris' hand in both of his own. How frail that hand felt! He could feel the bones straight through the skin. As an elf Fenris had always been slender, but that lean frame used to be combined with strong, ripped muscles and a nearly endless amount of stamina. Lack of physical activity and decent nutrition now consumed those muscles rapidly. Fenris' arms and legs had lost a lot of their volume already. When he woke up again he would be too weak to lift a sword, maybe even to walk.

"It hurts so much to see you like this," Damian whispered. Gently he caressed the back of Fenris' hand, his fingertips running over the bronze skin. "It will end soon. I'll make sure of that. I won't give up. I..." he fell silent, a suspicious frown crinkling his brow. He had felt something unexpected, something he was not supposed to feel.

Something was wrong. The palms of Fenris' hands had always been rough and calloused from years of wielding a sword, but the back of his hands was surprisingly soft and smooth. Or used to be. Damian's tender caress revealed a different sensation. Slowly he pulled the hand that covered the back of Fenris' hand away to check for proof of his suspicions. He had to squint against the light of the lyrium, but when he finally did see what he was looking for, everything seemed to come to a halt.

It felt like somebody had smacked him against the back of the head with a heavy object. Damian's breathing was cut off, his heart stopped beating in his chest. His eyes registered nothing after the sight of the peeling skin, his ears unable to hear anything but a terrible buzzing noise which was produced by his own numb mind.

He recognized the signs, knew what they meant. He had seen them before, once, more than six years ago during his time as a member of Athenril's smuggling group. One of the crates they had had to transport for a job had not been sealed properly and the two men who had carried it had soon started to have patches of shedding and blistering skin on their arms and hands. Right before they had started bleeding from their eyes. They had survived the incident - barely - but mind nor body had fully recovered. If Hawke had been the one to carry that crate it would have meant his death. It had been the main reason for his falling out with Athenril and not leaving the smugglers on very good terms.

The fatal meaning of the symptoms slammed the world back into focus and made the remnant of air Damian had been holding in his lungs come out with a wheezing sound.

Lyrium poisoning.

"Oh no."

Frantically he inspected the rest of Fenris' body. Arms, chest, neck, legs, everywhere he found small blisters and the skin peeling near the edges of the markings.

"No no no no no no."

He rose from the chair to lean over Fenris and lifted an eyelid to check the unconscious elf's eye. A bloodshot retina was revealed, moving rapidly left and right while Fenris' spirit dreamt in the Fade.

"No no no no! NO!" Damian cried out as he fell back in his chair. "Why are you doing this to me?" He slammed his fist on the mattress, which had no impressive effect except his hand feebly bouncing back. "Why do you have to make this even harder?"

How was it possible that those terrible markings kept making things worse? First demons having access to Fenris' mind had appeared to be the threat. Then the unstable connection to the Fade which had eventually dragged him into a coma. Now it was the lyrium itself. Fenris being unable to wake up had been bad, but this was worse. Far worse. Weakened as Fenris would have been after weeks of sleep, he could have been kept alive as long as was necessary. This... this was a death sentence. No extra time to find a solution. The markings were falling apart and with each passing day would release more lyrium into Fenris' system, poisoning him till a lethal level was reached.

"No." The word was accompanied by a sob. Damian got up again and raised his hands above Fenris' abdomen. He wrestled with the two conflicting streams of magic within him, his ability to focus further impaired by blind panic. Though the cut in his palm was closed at the moment and not bleeding, the forbidden power urged him to use it. It blocked the way to his healing abilities, repeatedly interfering with his concentration when he was about to gain control of a spell. Finally he got a hold on his healing magic and was able to let a spell flow from his fingertips.

"No, Fenris. Please. Please don't do this to me. No. No."

But lyrium, being magic in a solid form, did not obey the same laws of magic as everything else. Damian found nothing to heal, no damage, no wounds, not even tumors. Whatever the lyrium was doing to Fenris, Hawke's magic could not reach it and therefore not cure it. Apart from the superficial symptoms of the skin and eyes, lyrium's effects remained hidden and could not be healed.

He groaned. "Please, Fenris. Why... you can't. I can't. Please." Eventually he gave up on the spell and let it go. It was not doing anything. Worthless.

His hands clenched into fists, fingernails digging into the crust on his left hand. The injury throbbed and protested against this assault, but the blood underneath it begged to flow.

Hawke cast a final look at Fenris' glowing body, wasting away and invisibly assaulted by the lyrium in his bloodstream, then turned around and raced out of the room, past the two dumbfounded slaves waiting outside.

Prudence be damned. Fuck caution. Time was running out. It had run out already. Who knew how much damage the lyrium in Fenris' body had already done? He could not afford any more delays. Fenris was dying. The ritual had to be undone, those disgusting markings had to be removed.

Hawke slammed the door to the library shut behind him and immediately walked to the circle of candles and the pattern of lyrium dust. He renewed the lines with more dust from a small pouch he had grabbed from the table, lit the candles and sat down in the center. Without a moment of pause he retrieved the dagger from his belt and cut through the crust on his palm. The sensation of warm, wet blood on his skin elicited a sigh, his mind clearing a little in panic's merciless hold. He performed the familiar process of mixing lyrium with blood, blood with lyrium, then allowed the fire to burn through his veins and the combination of lyrium and blood to force his mind from his body and into the Fade.

Hawke found himself in a room which resembled Danarius' library. No maze of bookcases this time. The room looked relatively normal for the Fade, although the chairs were placed on top of the table rather than around it and some bookcases still had not learned the meaning of gravity. "Danarius!"

Silence, as usual. He opened the door and went into the hallway. He passed several closed doors, some of which he was pretty certain he had not seen earlier, before he reached the staircase. Which happened to be upside down. Shaking his head at the absurdity of the Fade's creations, Hawke took the first few steps. The mismatch between what his mind and eyes predicted and the "reality" of the Fade made him dizzy, but he managed to reach the next floor nevertheless.

Doors. Endless rows of doors left right.

He called Danarius' name again before turning right, the way Fenris' bedroom would be. Hawke opened all the doors he walked past, but every room they revealed was empty.

He kept going, even after it had become clear he had ended up in another trap without escape. Mazes of bookcases, desolate, barren plains, long, winding corridors going nowhere, it was all the same. A waste of time, a way to drain him and still be left with nothing. But Damian's desperation ushered him on, kept him going while retreat would be the wisest thing to do.

Spending five minutes or five hours here, the result was the same. No Danarius. No answers. He had no idea how many doors he had pushed open, only that it had to be hundreds. Turning back would take too long, and likely yield the same outcome.

He had to leave the Fade.

His mouth was dry as desert when he awoke in the library, his stomach painfully shrunken from hunger. The first attempt to get back on his feet failed, but once he stood upright Damian immediately went to the kitchen and ordered the slaves to bring him all the food and drink they could carry.

Hawke sat in the kitchen and ate and drank as much as he could. He chewed sloppily, swallowing large bites at once and downing it with water, milk or wine. The taste of it all barely registered. He did not eat for enjoyment or even satisfaction. He ate the same way he had marched through the Fade, opening door after door without stopping.

He ate too much. He felt nauseated by the time he was finished, but he did not care. Restoring the energy he would need to continue was the only purpose. Ignoring the staring slaves, Hawke walked out of the kitchen and made his way to his own bedroom, where he lay down on the bed without undressing and fell asleep in a surprisingly short time.

The following morning he went down to the library and ventured into the Fade once again, spending hours searching for Danarius without success. Afterwards he returned to the kitchen to eat till he felt like he was about to burst. This became his daily rhythm, the pattern his existence followed. He slept, dwelled the Fade, ate, defecated, slept, and went into the Fade again.

He started cutting in different places, marking his lower arm with a fresh cut each time he had to perform the spell. Not because he enjoyed it, or because it was necessary, but simply because it was the only way to feel something other than that constant, sickening sensation of despair that smothered everything else. The kiss of the knife, the sting of pain followed by the rush of power became the highlight of each day, the only moment he still felt alive and dared to hope he would find what he needed this time. Maybe the magisters are right. Maybe this is the magic of freedom after all.

"Monster. Monster. Monster."

Anything for you, Fenris.

Day and night became meaningless. Whenever Hawke woke up he went downstairs to travel into the Fade, sometimes two or three times a day. He only took some time to recover when his hands and feet started to feel permanently cold and his skin became sickly pale, and even then the time he granted himself was barely sufficient.

He never bothered to heal his self-inflicted wounds. He did not really know why, only that it seemed too much effort. The slaves began to leave health poultices near the library door, probably on Elias' instruction. Sometimes he used them. Most often he did not. That his arm did not get infected was a miracle in itself, but Hawke paid no attention to it. Only the Fade was relevant.

He roamed twisted versions of Minrathous, Lothering, and other places he might or might not have visited before. All were abandoned, the random echoes of his voice the only reaction he got.

This time he ended up in Kirkwall. He recognized the streets of Lowtown, even more bereft of color than their real counterpart. After wandering the alleys for some time, and ending up at the alienage via more separate routes than should have been possible, a familiar sign off in the distance caught Hawke's eye. It was farther away than he remembered, but it became larger as Hawke approached until the form could no longer be mistaken: the figure of a man, bound by his feet and hanging upside down.

The Hanged Man.

This was where they had fought Danarius. This was where the magister had died.

Could it be?

Hastily Damian kicked the door open and peered inside. It was darker than he remembered. A couple of short candle stumps burning on the four or five tables in the establishment served as the only sources of light. The high windows were rendered useless, as if it was pitch black outside. Staff firmly in his right hand, he stepped across the threshold. The door immediately fell shut behind him.

He was about to turn around to investigate this unsettling event when he spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. A robed, older man descended the stairs on the far end of the room, mirroring the first time they had met. "Well, look who's here. The Champion of Kirkwall. My, my, how the mighty have fallen!"

That voice left no room for doubt. Despite having faced the grey-haired magister only once, Damian would never forget that smooth, confident voice which betrayed both arrogance and power. He walked away from the door and towards the center of the room, where the dead magister was already waiting for him. "I could say the same of you, Danarius," Hawke replied when he came to a stop.

"Why, how kind of you to come visit me then. Shall we start a club?"

Hawke suppressed the tendency to clench his free hand into a fist. "How do you undo the ritual?"

"I think I already know a name. 'The club of little Fenris' fallen mages'. How does that sound?"

"HOW?!" he bellowed.

Danarius looked unfazed by this display of impatience. "Tsk tsk tsk, my dear Champion. First I would like to know how you think to convince me to tell you such a thing. After all," a malicious smile curled the mouth of the magister's spirit, "I am already dead."