The next morning, she slumped into her leathers with a grumbled curse. It was unfair that someone so short could put away booze so easily. He'd left late last night with a promise to meet them at the bar in the morning, whistling a snatch of a tune as he left. Hawke was left behind groggy and somewhat headachey, and she didn't feel much better this morning.

However, there was business to attend to. She squared her shoulders, and headed off to Fenris' house. She still wasn't sure how she felt about things, but she'd decided that wasn't important for now. Fenris needed her help; she'd promised to give it. It was time to get moving.

Fenris answered her knock so quickly that she suspected he'd been standing in the hall waiting for her. He made no move to leave, however, but ushered her in and began - or was it resumed? - pacing in the entry hall.

"There have been no further reports from Donnic," he said briefly. "Varric sent a messenger to say that Varania seems to be there, and seems to be alone."

Hawke said nothing, just watched as he continued to prowl back and forth.

"I've been warming up since dawn," he continued after a moment. "I'm trying to think what else I'm forgetting, what I ought to have done. There must be something."

She watched him for a minute more. When there was no indication he planned to stop wearing a groove in the stones of the foyer anytime soon, she stepped abruptly forward. He stopped, startled to find her in his path.

"Then we should go," she said. "It's the not knowing that's making you crazy. Either it is a trap or it isn't, and there's only one way to find out."

He frowned, then nodded. "I suppose you're right."

"I tried what you suggested, about writing down the memories when they come," Fenris continued. He'd started talking as they passed the Chantry steps, and had hardly paused for a breath since. If it had been anyone else, Hawke would have said he was babbling. Her eyebrows had risen almost to her hairline when he started; she was worried they might be permanently stuck there by now.

"I bought a blank book just for that purpose, and I've been making notes - writing down the memories as they happen. As much as I can, of course; sometimes I'm out and don't have the book with me. Sometimes I forget before I finish writing; I'm still not as fast with a pen as I would like. But I think it has helped a little with retaining the memories, just as you said. I may even recognize Varania when we get there. She has red hair, I'm almost certain. That is... I knew that already from the reports of the men I paid. But I think I remember it as well; the exact shade." They walked a few more steps. "Do you know, I think my own hair used to be black? It must have been the lyrium ritual that changed it." He lifted a lock from his forehead and looked at it for a moment, dropping it abruptly when he stubbed his toe on a misaligned cobble. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "You're laughing at me again. Must you do that?"

"I can't help it," Hawke said, letting out the breath of laughter she'd been valiantly trying to keep in for the past five minutes. "In the six years I've known you, I don't think I've ever heard you talk so much at once. Not even when you're drunk."

He grimaced ruefully. "I'm... really nervous, Hawke. I'm facing a past I know nothing about. It has to be a trap."

"And if it is, we'll bust out of it. I promise." The last of her anger had slipped away in the face of his anxiety. He'd never allowed her to see him vulnerable before. He wore his mask of stoic disinterest like a shield, and when he couldn't maintain it, he replaced it with anger. When anger failed him, he fled. She'd never had this kind of honesty from him before; it almost made the whole deception around his search worthwhile. She took his hand in hers, and squeezed it. After a moment, he squeezed back.

"We'll be there soon," she said, "and the worst of it will be over. Only one more flight of stairs now, and we'll be at the Hanged Man."