Damian quickly fell into the rhythm of his new life. Most of the day he spent doing little chores. He was hesitant to ask Fenris for help because it never failed to feel like he was issuing orders, so he did most of the work himself and gave Fenris the lighter tasks when he was becoming restless from watching his "master" getting his hands dirty. Over the weeks they fixed the last defects that required fixing, tended their little garden and prepared for the winter season. Damian cast a circle of glyphs of paralysis around the house, hidden underneath the leaves on the forest ground to stop potential enemies from approaching. Occasionally he made the walk to the village to trade or purchase. By creating poultices from elfroot and other herbs he gathered in the area he earned the reputation of a healer, but he never used magic to cure ailments.
When all the work had been done for the day he devoted his attention to Fenris. The last visible effects of the lyrium poisoning and malnutrition disappeared; Fenris' skin mended and became smooth again, his thinning, matte hair regaining its volume and shine. Damian had cut it and because he made a poor barber it looked about as sloppy as it had during the years in Kirkwall. Fenris was no longer alarmingly underweight but remained thin and far removed from the athletic warrior he used to be. And improvements in appearance were the only progress he made.
Damian spent evening after evening trying to wrangle a memory from Fenris, prodding him for any knowledge indicating part of his mind had survived. He asked about the Tevinter Imperium, Seheron and Kirkwall. He brought up the topic of magisters, mages, Qunari, Fog Warriors and slaves. He mentioned Merrill and Anders, Aveline and Donnic, Varric and Isabela, Hadriana and Danarius, Elias, Varania and Leto. Some knowledge of the Imperium seemed to have stuck but most of Fenris' answers were confused and he could rarely provide actual anecdotes of his experiences. Eventually the rounds of questioning always ended the same: either Fenris retreated within his shell and refused to answer any further questions, distressed by his inability to please Hawke, or he lashed out in anger and called him a monster. This exhaustive and discouraging process kept repeating itself for over a month. Then Varric returned.
Confused by the unexpected visit Damian asked the rogue what had brought him back here after their initial greeting. As answer he was handed an envelope bearing the seal of the Grey Wardens. Damian's heart sank.
"You didn't have to deliver this yourself," he said while he opened the envelope and pulled out the letter. A letter of condolences. It had to be. A Warden-Commander would tell him they were sorry to inform him of the death of his brother. He would have died heroically, doing his duty. Something like that. Predictable. Meaningless. Damian stared at Varric to postpone having to read the message.
Varric pulled Bianca from his back, stroked her lovingly and positioned the crossbow against a chair before sitting down. "I know, but I wanted to see you anyway. I thought I might as well play messenger. Go ahead, read it."
I never thought I'd wish to escape from a letter. He nodded to Varric and slowly turned his gaze to the parchment in his hand. The first two words seemed to jump off the page. "Dear Damian".
"This... this is Carver's handwriting!" He stumbled, his legs growing weak with relief, and let himself drop down on the remaining chair next to the table. His eyes flew over the lines. Carver had written this. He was well, safe and sound. "He's alive." Damian threw his head back and laughed. "He's alive!"
Varric observed Hawke's display of joy with amused bewilderment. Fenris watched them both quietly from his place on the couch, near the hearth. He still grew cold easily. "Of course little Hawke is alive. Why would you want to write him if you thought he was dead?"
"I just... I thought the darkspawn had killed him." He reread the letter, a little more calmly this time. If Carver was alive it was not his spirit Damian had seen in the Fade. An illusion then? What about the rest of his family? He still did not believe they had been demons in disguise. Had Father, Mother and Bethany been real? His father's reaction to his presence, to his use of blood magic... It had been real. He just knew. The only question remaining was who had conjured up the presence of the others. Somehow he doubted it had been Danarius.
"Well, they didn't. He's actually in Weisshaupt, not that far from here." When Damian just nodded, speechless and ecstatic, Varric chuckled. "You look like you could use a drink." He rummaged through his luggage, then held up a dark brown bottle. "Whiskey?"
Damian grinned. "Not the rat-tasting swill from the Hanged Man, I hope?"
Varric scoffed and feigned insult. "As if I would drag a bottle of their piss around the Free Marches, Serah! No, this is the good stuff. Bring out the glasses!"
"I don't have glasses." Damian got up and walked to the area that served as the kitchen and returned with three mugs which were actually too large for the strong stuff Varric had brought. He poured a bit in them and offered one to Fenris, but the elf refused.
"No glasses? Hawke, are you telling me you're surviving out here without the occasional booze?!"
Damian emptied the third mug above his own, sat down and took a gulp. A welcome heat travelled down his throat and spread through his stomach. "I'm afraid so," he said. "It would be too tempting to be permanently stinking drunk otherwise." It had not really been a joke, but they both smiled nonetheless. "Thank you, Varric," he added. "You're a good friend."
"Yeah, well," Varric drank from his own whiskey. "You used to be one too."
Damian turned the mug around in his hands and watched the liquid move. "Used to be, huh?"
"Yep. This one is for old time's sake."
He nodded. "I understand. So why are you here, Varric? You said you wanted to see me."
"I have some news I thought you would want to know. Rivaini made it out of Tevinter. She's back to raiding."
"I'm not surprised. Isabela can wriggle herself out of any position. Literally and figuratively. I'm glad she survived."
"Yeah. No word from Blondie, though," Varric went on. "Apparently we left the biggest shit-storm in years behind in Tevinter. The rebellion lead to-"
"Have you heard from Aveline?"
Varric's brow furrowed. The talkative dwarf was not used to being interrupted. "You don't want to hear what happened in Tevinter?"
Damian briefly glanced in Fenris' direction before shaking his head. "I don't need to. It always ends the same."
"But..."
"I said no, Varric." An idea popped into his head. "On second thought, tell me one thing. Did magister Claudius die?"
"There are rumors one or two died in the fighting and I know one has been made Tranquil, but I'm not sure which."
Damian leaned back in his chair. "That explains why I haven't been hunted in the Fade. One of those must have been Claudius. That's reassuring."
"Great." Varric still looked irked he was not allowed to share all his information. Not letting the storyteller say whatever he wanted to say was the easiest way to annoy him. "I haven't heard much from Aveline, but apparently she's still with Donnic. They're trying to work it out, though it's not easy. Donnic was ready to throw in the towel." A pause followed in which they both downed more of their whiskey. "She didn't want to say why you're dead to her but it's clear something happened." Varric leaned over the table, tapping his fingertips together. "Care to share how you managed to piss off our Guard-Captain? I think you still owe me a story."
"Maybe I do." Damian looked at Fenris again. "But not now. If you want, I'll tell you tonight."
Varric's face betrayed his surprise that Hawke was actually showing willingness to talk about what had happened but knew better than to ask whether he was certain.
"What about you, Varric? What are you up to now?"
"Telling stories about you, as usual. This time for the Divine." At Damian's raised eyebrows he clarified: "The Divine is trying to set up a peace conference in Ferelden for mages and Templars. The Seeker who interrogated me in Kirkwall asked me to accompany her and repeat what I told her for a larger audience."
"You're working with the Chantry now?!" Damian made no effort to conceal his anger. "What if you led them here? I swear, Varric, I'll-"
"Easy on the tough act there, Hawke. I assure you I did not lead Seekers, Templars, or demons here. I promised the Seeker I would come with her after I took care of some business. Naturally she tried to have me followed, but I managed to shake them off. Don't you worry, when I let them find me it will be far away from here." A moment of hesitation, then: "Are you sure you don't want to come too? Your presence at the peace conference could sway the mages."
"And the Templars would demand my head. No thanks. One attempted public execution was enough. My time of trying to be a hero and a peacemaker is over. I was never very good at it. And even if I wanted to, Fenris isn't up for it."
"Shame." Varric raised his mug. "To the good old days, then."
Varric joined them for dinner and for a while the conversation remained on neutral ground. Both Hawke and Varric made several attempts to encourage Fenris to offer his own contribution, but never with much success. When they had finished their meal, had done the dishes and Fenris had retreated to the single bedroom the hut counted, Varric and Damian sat back at the table with the bottle of whiskey. Damian knew he would need it if he wanted to tell everything he had done in Minrathous.
"If I tell you this," he began, "I need you to promise you will never breathe a word of it to anyone else. Not at the peace conference, not on your deathbed. Not to the Divine, your new best friend or even Bianca herself."
Varric wrinkled his nose in distaste. Stories he was not allowed to share were not very valuable to him. The rogue looked like he wanted to protest, but the cold look in Damian's eyes made him change his mind. His curiosity won it from his distaste for forbidden stories. "Fine, fine," he sighed, exasperated.
"Promise?"
"I promise."
Damian nodded, more at his mug than at Varric. He brought it to his mouth and downed its contents in one go. Then he immediately reached for a refill. "Alright then."
The first part was easy. He told Varric about their arrival in Minrathous and their conversations with Claudius and Feynriel. He could even derive some enjoyment from recounting the duel against magister Gaius and the embarrassment of the magisters at his unexpected victory. Varric appeared entertained and accused Hawke several times of making things up. But when Damian began to describe the ongoing search for Danarius' documentation ofthe ritual and Fenris' worsening condition, Varric's smile faded. Damian told him how Fenris began to distrust him more and more, how he seemed to become obsessed with the issue of slavery in the Imperium and eventually murdered a slaver and attacked a magister during one of Claudius' parties. He left out the details of the night that followed this last event and continued with the reveal of the secret room. By the time he reached the point where he had put the collar on Fenris and locked him up Damian's head started to feel cloudy and his speech was slowing. But he soldiered on, his eyes now permanently on the whiskey in front of him rather than on the dwarf's face.
Varric listened silently for a long time, but when Damian told him of the deal he had made with Claudius in exchange for the description of the ritual, he spoke up. "Hold up," he interrupted. "You handed the secret of the ritual to the creepy magister? The ritual that gave Elf those markings? The one he kept ranting about and hurt so much it wiped his memory? That ritual?"
"No, the one that makes him fart rainbows and see dancing unicorns," Damian slurred sarcastically. "Yes, Varric, that ritual."
"Does... I mean, did Elf know this?"
"No. Maybe he guessed. I don't know." He waited for Varric to say something else but the dwarf remained silent, so he continued his tale. Despite the welcome fog of the alcohol he felt his cheeks burn while he described his turn to blood magic and the repeated ventures into the Fade. He remained vague about how deep he had truly sunk during that time and only mentioned the appearance of his dead family in passing. Considering the state Varric had seen Damian in upon his arrival in Minrathous the rogue could probably form a picture on his own. He was cunning enough for that. "And that's when you arrived, with Sandal," Damian concluded.
"Maker's breath, Hawke." More did Varric not manage.
Damian chuckled wryly. "At a loss for words, Varric? Never..." he tried to suppress a burp. "Never thought I'd see the day."
"Yes, well, enjoy it while it lasts. Did you tell Aveline all this too? Is that why she's mad?"
"No... I... umm... I told her I would kill Donnic if he tried to keep Fenris from me."
This time Varric truly remained silent. Damian glimpsed up to see the dwarf take a swig from his mug. "That settles that, then."
More silence, the longest of all. Damian utilized it to empty another mug. He had lost count a while ago. After what seemed like an hour Varric opened his mouth again. "So... how is Fenris? He looks better."
"From the outside. I'm sure you noticed the rest hasn't changed. But I won't give up. I've been trying to get him to remember something. I question him every day. There has to be something... It can't all be gone."
Varric sighed and rubbed his face. "Hawke, maybe it's better if you let it go. You did what you could. I know you want to speak to Elf after everything that happened, but when the mind is gone it can't be brought back. Maker knows I wanted to get answers from Bartrand, but it was hopeless."
Damian let the whiskey in his mug swirl around. "Quentin cut off my m-mother's head and sewed it on the body of a different woman. He... removed her eyes and put those of someone else in instead." Thinking about it still made him feel sick. Or maybe it was just the drink this time. "And she was still there. Her mind was still there." He heard the drunken conviction in his own voice. "If Fenris is gone... I have to know for certain. I have to be absolutely certain he's no longer there."
"But he's been that way for months. How much more certain do you expect to become? Let it rest, Hawke."
"Hmph. You're one to talk. You never got over Bianca."
"Bianca? I have no idea what you're talking about." Varric patted the crossbow, which was still leaning against his chair. "Bianca's right here!"
"I meant the real Bianca, you hairy little liar. I'm not stupid. There was a woman you named that thing after, and she wasn't made of wood. Sssooo I don't need your advice about moving on. What would that be, anyway? Sh-should I call my staff Fenris?" Damian snickered in his mug. "Oho, that would have annoyed him!"
Because he was not looking up he missed the pained expression on Varric's face. "Just... be careful, Hawke. Both for your sake and for Elf's. Don't push too far."
They went to sleep not long afterwards. Varric would spend the night in the living room while Hawke went to his own bed in the room he shared with Fenris. Damian stumbled toward his empty bed, wrestling with his clothes to take them off. Of course he had had far too much to drink. Completely hammered he fell down on the straw mattress, his breeches still on his ankles. He kicked them off and fell asleep without even covering himself with the sheets.
Damian was roused in the middle of the night by the pressure of a full bladder. Groggily he pushed himself up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed to find the chamber pot. His feet met resistance well before he expected to find the wooden floorboards, and more uneven at that. And obviously the floor should not let out a pained yelp when he tried to stand up. Damian tripped over the obstacle and landed against Fenris' bed, which was positioned against the wall opposite of his own. Fortunately he fell with his face on the mattress.
Oh, fuck, no.
Still dazed from the alcohol and the unexpected fall he rolled around. As he had feared he saw Fenris sitting up across from him. "What..." Damian pinched the bridge of his nose to keep himself from shouting. "What are you doing there?!"
"Sleeping."
With a groan Damian hoisted himself to his feet. He could already feel a mighty hangover announce itself. "On the floor?! You have your own bed! Go back to that!"
"I wanted to be at your side, Master. I have to be there when you need me."
"No, no, no, no, no. This is wrong. This is so wrong." He wrestled with the inappropriate tendency to laugh hysterically. Whenever he thought he was starting to get used to the situation Fenris found a way to trip him up. Literally, this time. "What... what would I need you for in the middle of the night? I can take a piss on my own, Fenris."
Fenris was still sitting on the floor, looking properly remorseful. "Are you displeased with me, Master?"
Don't get mad. Don't get mad. "Just..." He gestured behind him. "Just go back to your bed."
If Varric had heard the commotion of that night, he made no comment of it. The dwarven rogue began his journey south the following day. Hawke did not ask whether telling the truth about everything he had done had cost him his last friend. Varric gave no clear hints either way, but it had never been easy to read the storyteller. Damian hoped he would keep his promise and never reveal what had become of the Champion of Kirkwall after fighting the invocation of the Right of Annulment. Retelling it once, on his own terms, was enough.
Not long after Varric's departure a merchant caravan visited the village. Hawke purchased most of the supplies he would need to make it through the winter, as well as parchment, ink and quills to write to Carver. When one of the merchants dug up the requested items she lifted three piles of books out of the way. Out of an old habit Damian peered at the bindings to see if he had read them. One of the titles he spotted was The Adventures of the Black Fox, the last book Fenris had practiced on before abruptly ending their reading lessons.
The excitement of a new idea made his heart beat faster. Maybe direct questioning was not the right way to test Fenris' memory. All his attempts to get explicit knowledge out of Fenris had yielded poor results. By now he had to admit that was not the area he would find something to draw hope from, but if he could find evidence that a skill had stuck with Fenris, a skill he had learned during the period his dementia had swallowed up... He had considered letting Fenris practice his swordsmanship to see whether his old warrior abilities remained, but giving him anything that resembled a weapon seemed like a bad idea. Damian had no desire to end up like Feynriel. But what if Fenris could still read?
He pointed at the books. "I'll take them all."
It took a lot of time to drag all his purchases back to the hut. The books formed a considerable weight Damian had not counted on when he had set off.
As usual Fenris was waiting for him. The elf hurried toward Damian to help with his baggage. Whenever possible Damian avoided bringing Fenris with him, out of fear what would happen if Fenris decided to address him as master in front of the villagers. At best they would find it odd and not care, ascribing it to Hawke's already established eccentricity. At worst they would become hostile or alert the authorities of a nearby city of illegal practices of slavery.
Damian thanked Fenris for the help and together they stored everything in its place. The impulse to immediately shove a book under Fenris' nose and ask him to read it was strong, but Damian contained his excitement. He should not be too hasty. Perhaps he could ensure Fenris was at ease with the request to read by first reading out loud to him.
Near the end of the day Damian sat down to write a letter to Carver. His previous message had been very short because he did not believe it would truly be read by his younger brother. He intended to make up for that now. He still could not divulge too much in case the letter would fall into the wrong hands. Or Carver decided to give it to the wrong hands upon hearing his brother was a blood mage... So certain details remained off-limits, but nevertheless Damian was in a good mood while penning the letter.
Maybe I should try writing Gamlen as well, he thought while rereading what he had written. He sat back when his eyes went over the sentence with the words "Grey Wardens" in it, his forehead creasing. The merchant had only had red ink left for sale - an annoying, dramatic color to write in, but now it attracted his attention for a different reason. The way the color represented by the written word clashed with the color of the ink...
"Grey in red," he mumbled to himself. On a hunch Damian tore off a corner of the parchment and wrote "BLUE" on it in capital letters. "Fenris?"
Fenris immediately walked over to him, always ready for new instructions. Damian showed him what he had just written.
"What is the color of this word?" he asked the elf. "Of the ink, I mean."
Fenris gave him a confused stare before he obediently focused on the scrap of parchment. "B... red."
He hesitated! "Yes! Yes!" Damian jumped up and went to grab the first book within reach. His previous intent of being patient forgotten, he opened the book on a random page and tried to give it to Fenris. "Tell me what it says."
Startled by the command Fenris pushed the book away. "I'm... I'm sorry, Master. I can't read."
"That's alright. I just want you to try."
Fenris' eyes pleaded to retract the instructions but Damian insisted. The first sign of something right, something hopeful... he could not let that slip. If the reading lessons had been preserved he had to know. They could work from there...
"Master, please. I don't know how." Fenris looked around for a way to escape, but he was kept in place by his own obedience.
"I'm not trying to make fun of you. I won't get mad if you get it wrong. Just try." Again he held the book out, urging Fenris to take it.
"I can't. I can't! I CAN'T! Monster!" As had happened previously, Fenris' confusion and panic suddenly switched to aggression. He ripped the book out of Damian's hands and hit him on the head with it before Damian had time to react. The force was enough to knock him out.
When he woke up on the rough wooden floor of the hut he was alone. Fenris was gone.
