A/N: Just did a quick update of this chapter to make a few things clearer. And just as a reminder: Bioware owns everything and I, sadly, do not.

Hope you enjoy the story! - 333


Chapter One

9:34 Dragon

Just outside Kirkwall

Fenris marched with the single-minded focus of a soldier, returning to Kirkwall from an escort job up the Wounded Coast. He had been taking more mercenary jobs on his own lately, since working with Hawke was... awkward now. What had happened with Hadriana – and afterward – made it prudent for him to stay away, if possible. Hawke was a capable woman, and, as Sebastian liked to say, had assembled quite the team. As much as Fenris worried about her (and as much as he'd deny that he did if anyone asked), he had confidence in her skill. If he left her for a day or two, or even a week at a time, she would be fine. He would return to Kirkwall; he owed her that much.

What he hadn't expected was for Kirkwall to be actively and literally on fire when he did return.

He was still a distance away from the city, but the smoke, the smell of burning... it was evident and distressing enough. Fenris continued his solid march toward the city-state, as questions drifted across his mind, unbidden – how had this happened? Was the fire an accident? Had it been an attack?

Fenris prevented himself from thinking about any of the people he knew and had inexplicably come to care about. He wouldn't think about Aveline or Varric or Sebastian.

Or Hawke.

Not entirely consciously, he began to walk faster toward the city. The beginnings of a prayer hovered somewhere in that same not-quite-conscious space. What he was praying for, and to whom he was praying, Fenris himself couldn't have said, but it was sincere.

The city looked worse up close than it had from the coast, but Fenris could not notice. He could not be shocked. Shock made you weak, exploitable. It stopped you in your tracks, and movement was freedom. Movement was life. Recovering and reacting quickly and calmly was survival.

Fenris lost himself in movement, relying on instinct to carry him forward as he focused his sharp eyes and ears on his surroundings, attempting to piece together what had happened.

He saw a city on fire, the poor scrambling and desperate, a few opportunists attempting to take advantage of the chaos to loot nearby houses – not that he blamed them, as he'd done similar things himself – as some of the city guard vainly tried to restore order. Fenris saw the injured and the dying, saw their mouths move as they cried out for someone to heal and help them. He saw those whose pleas had gone unanswered.

There were screams, Fenris heard as he continued on, wails of grief and pain piercing through his haze. The sound of fire roaring nearby caught his attention momentarily, and he heard a house collapse behind him. People were calling out – to gods, to loved ones, to anyone: Emilia, where are you, answer me, I can't find you. Take care of them, Rik, promise me you'll take care of them. Maker, Dessa, stay with me, I know it hurts, but stay with me, we'll find you a healer. Dareth shiral, lethallan.

Fenris.

It was quiet and distant, but Fenris heard his own name. He stopped. Someone was looking for him. Years of flight warred with the knowledge that he had people who worried about his well-being now. The voice belonged to one of his allies, he thought fiercely. They had shed blood together, and now they were looking for him to ensure his safety.

But he could not make himself move. He realized suddenly that he was standing in the middle of the Lowtown Bazaar, that one of the nearby staircases was on fire (as were two of the buildings), and that he had a stitch in his side and a growing headache from the smoke and screaming.

Fenris.

His name was called again, louder and more desperate. The voice was familiar to him. It is an ally, he insisted in his mind.

As much as he wanted to, he could not make himself continue to go forward. As much as he liked to pretend that he had no master holding his leash, Fenris listened to the pounding of his pulse in his ears and realized who his master really was: his fear.

"Maker, give me strength. Fenris, where are you?"

The voice was familiar and welcome: heavily-accented and usually jovial, but now it, like him, was struggling with fear. It was a voice that was barely holding panic at bay.

With the knowledge that it well and truly was an ally searching for him, Fenris was able to force his legs to move in a vaguely forward direction. His keen elvhen hearing made out a quiet prayer.

"Blessed Andraste, stand by Fenris in this difficult hour. Protect him and keep him safe from harm."

Fenris ran up toward the voice, taking the stairs two at a time. One of his allies was looking for him, was fine, was alive. The others might – they would, they must – be well, too. Optimism was something Hawke had been trying to teach him, but it had turned out to be more difficult than reading; she hadn't been too optimistic herself lately – not with everything that had happened.

"Fenris!" The voice of the Starkhaven prince and/or Chantry brother came calling again, half-panicked now.

"Sebastian?" Fenris returned as he rounded the final corner near the long staircase to Hightown.

The elf's eyes locked on his ally and widened in alarm. Sebastian's armor was stained all down the front with what had to be blood. He had several cuts and bruises on his face and neck, and he was holding his left arm at an awkward angle.

"Venhedis," Fenris swore, moving forward to assist him. "What happened?"

"The Qunari," Sebastian said. "They tried to take the city."

Fenris shouldn't have been surprised. He knew the Qunari couldn't leave without the Tome of Koslun, which Isabela had stolen, asked Hawke to help her find, and stolen again before fleeing Kirkwall, presumably for good. He knew the tensions between the Qunari and the Chantry had been running high for some time. He knew the only one dealing with the madness, the one the Arishok respected was –

"Hawke," Fenris whispered.

The prince nodded.

"Where is she?" Fenris said, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt.

Sebastian didn't reply. It seemed he hadn't heard. His face was guarded, as if he were trying to choose the right words to say something unpalatable.

No.

No.

Fenris would not allow –

"It was single combat," Sebastian offered, finally seeing that the elf was practically glowing with anger and worry. "She's alive, she won, but she's... not in good shape, Fenris. I wanted to prepare you. It... will not be easy to see."

Fenris's talks with her about the Qunari had taken hold, then. It seemed the Arishok had truly respected her. He had declared her basalit-an. Hawke had challenged him. She had fought in single combat with the leader of the Qunari military who carried two swords that were the same size she was. She was a rogue, wielding two daggers that were hardly big enough to give him a paper cut. It was stupid, foolish, reckless –

And if he'd been there, he would have suggested it.

Fasta vass, he should have been there. Why had he left her to do this on her own?

"She's still at the Keep. She..." Sebastian swallowed hard, "she couldn't be moved. She asked me to find you."

Fenris looked at Sebastian with wild, panicked eyes for a moment.

Panic is death, Fenris thought, trying to steel himself against the feeling. Closing his eyes, he almost found words for the prayer he had not been able to articulate.

"Anders should be there by now, so..." Sebastian tried to look hopeful for the bereft elf in front of him.

Fenris nodded, not saying anything, not trusting himself to say anything. Sebastian turned toward the stairs to Hightown and led Fenris to the Viscount's Keep.

The elf did not see Hightown. He saw nothing of the abandoned, burning market stalls; he did not note the bodies of the carta dwarves, Circle mages, Templars, and Qunari strewn about; and he paid absolutely no attention to the rush of nobles, even though they were all murmuring the words "Hawke" and "Champion."

He wanted to be with Hawke, to comfort and console her as he had after her mother died, and yet...

He had left her.

He had left her again.

He might lose her for good this time.

Why had he not stayed today and gone with her to see the Arishok?

It would have made no difference, had I been there, Fenris thought angrily. I would have suggested single combat. The outcome would have been the same.

As Sebastian pushed open the door to the Keep with his good arm, Fenris realized that there was one thing that made all the difference:

If, instead of running and staying away, instead of slinking off to hide like the coward he was, he had stood by her and been there with her today, he would already be with her now.

Every step, every inch away from her as she lay injured was a new barb stinging in Fenris's mind.

It was anguish.

It was torture.

It was probably nothing in comparison to what Hawke was feeling right now.

It was very probably worse.

Sebastian and Fenris moved quickly and silently into the throne room. Aveline stood guard, at the periphery of the room, with a look of total disbelief on her face. Hawke's uncle Gamlen stood near Aveline, drinking something potent out of a flask. He gave the flask to her, and, after a moment, Aveline took a long swig. She handed the flask back to Gamlen without looking at him.

Someone had taken Hawke's box of emergency supplies – which she laughingly called "The Justin Case" – from the estate, and Merrill was carefully sorting bandages, gauze, elfroot, and other supplies for when Anders needed them. The witch was focused on her task, trying to use the hands-on work as a distraction from everything that was really happening. The standing tears in her eyes showed exactly how well that was working.

Isabela, Varric, and Anders were kneeling beside Hawke; they were packed so tightly around her that Fenris could not see her. Isabela was keeping pressure on one of Hawke's wounds. The pirate looked stricken, immeasurably guilty, and faintly green. She did not seem to see or hear Sebastian and Fenris come in, since she did not take her eyes off Hawke.

Anders was lit lyrium-blue, which meant exactly one thing: he was calling on Justice to help him heal Hawke. That would have been a bad enough sign on its own, but, as he called to Merrill for more gauze and barked at Isabela to keep pressure on the leg wound because damn it, he would not lose her to this, it was clear how far his energy and patience had been strained. The abomination must have been at it for hours already, judging from the empty lyrium potion bottles lying about.

Varric held Hawke's hand in both of his, quietly telling her a story. Varric always insisted that he wasn't in the market for children's tales, but the circles under his eyes and worn look on his face told Fenris exactly why he was now regaling Hawke with the tale of "The Wolf who Cried Boy." As he began the tale, a weak and sputtering chuckle came from the broken woman in the middle of the room.

Hawke wasn't just alive; she was conscious.

"Hawke..." Fenris breathed. Relief, sweet relief. He hadn't realized there were tears in his eyes before now.

"We're back," Sebastian said, his voice gentle. Neither of them had moved from the doorway.

Varric was the only one who looked at them. The dwarf gestured to Fenris to come closer.

"...Varric?"

Hawke's voice was weak, so weak. Fenris should have been here sooner.

"I'll have to continue this story later," Varric said with a smile. "The elf's here."

Fenris saw Hawke try to exert herself, to rise to a sitting position. That, more than anything, was what drew Fenris forward as Anders put a hand on her chest to prevent her from moving and doing herself any further injury.

"No, Hawke," Anders said, kind but firm.

Varric moved aside for Fenris to sit next to Hawke. The elf got his first real look at what had been done to her, and she...

Hawke was staring at him, confused – almost as if she could not focus her eyes on him properly.

Fenris realized that was probably a symptom of the trauma she'd been through. His eyes searched the rest of her body, and he understood why Isabela looked nauseated. Hawke was petite, for a human, and quite a lot of blood - her blood - was on the once-immaculate floor of the throne room. She had been cut out of her leather armor to allow Anders and Isabela easier access to her wounds. Every part of her was bruised or bleeding; she was broken in more places than Fenris could have counted at first glance. Her skin was ashen, almost gray, and her breathing was quick and shallow.

Sebastian could never have prepared him for this.

While Anders and the others had been able to begin healing her, the scars would remain – like the ones on her neck that she had received in the Deep Roads from the rock wraith abomination. Fenris remembered how she had tried not to cry in front Varric, Bethany, and himself when she had realized that they would never go away. Hawke had been self-conscious about them, Fenris knew, but had never wanted them to see her weakness.

His thoughts were interrupted by a gentle, weak, and ice-cold hand resting on his forearm. Fenris brought his eyes back up to hers and saw a look of unbelievable relief and joy in them – a look he did not feel at all worthy of receiving.

"Fenris..." she whispered, affection as present in her voice as exhaustion.

"I'm here, Hawke," he hushed her, brushing the hair out of her face, which was damp with sweat. "Does it hurt?"

Hawke paused for a moment, trying to concentrate long enough to answer his question. Fenris stroked her forehead gently, a silent reminder that he was here, he was here, and it would be all right.

If only someone could reassure him of that.

"I think so," was the answer she decided on as she closed her eyes.

"She's in shock," Fenris realized. Hawke gasped for air.

"You think?" Anders snapped.

Fenris felt his hackles raise at the tone, but forced himself to calm. He had clearly worked himself to the bone already, and Hawke, while alive, was slowly slipping away from them all. If they were to start arguing, it would only agitate her.

"Don't worry," came the sputtering laugh again, "I don't think it's all my blood."

Fenris would have given anything in Thedas to be able to respond to her, but... he couldn't.

"Now that he's here, Hawke, I need you to take the sedative. It'll make things easier," Anders said. He put a hand out toward Merrill, who produced a small, dark green vial.

Hawke simply nodded as Anders removed the stopper from the vial.

"Help her lift her head, would you?" Anders asked, still a little testy.

Fenris removed his gauntlets and slipped one hand behind Hawke's head, supporting it gently. He put his other hand out for the vial, a challenge in his eyes – old habits die hard, as Hawke had said to him once.

Anders gave it to him, with the curt instruction, "Half only."

Fenris nodded once, and Anders went back to healing her. The liquid smelled of spindleweed and elfroot; nothing too dangerous, and he'd long since realized the abomination was a capable healer. Once Fenris helped Hawke take the required dose of sedative, he eased Hawke back down and handed the vial to Merrill.

Hawke made a face of disgust – a face that was so undeniably and unbelievably her that Fenris couldn't help chuckling. The tension in the room lifted palpably as everyone from Aveline to Varric seemed a few hours younger.

She grumbled weakly, "That tasted like liquified ass."

"Descriptive," Fenris said, finally giving her the smirk she liked. Hawke gave him a soft smile in return... a small one, but better than he'd hoped under the circumstances. The healing was starting to help, it seemed.

"No wonder you wanted to wait for him to get here before you took it, then," Merrill chirped, trying to banter and succeeding about as well as she usually did.

Hawke's smile vanished and she looked away from Fenris. Etched into every line of her face was a host of fears Fenris knew she knew too well.

"Just in case," she said quietly, closing her eyes and trying to regulate her breathing.

She had been afraid she wouldn't wake up, Fenris realized. Ever-reckless and often-shortsighted Hawke was afraid of dying. He wouldn't have believed it not too long ago.

Fenris wouldn't have believed Hawke would let him see the small tear he saw racing down her cheek, either. He wiped it away, simply because she couldn't right now, and he made a mental note to remember to forget about it at his earliest convenience or she would "kill him in the face," as she put it.

"Hawke..." Fenris sighed, uncertain how to reassure her. She needed something from him that he did not know how to give.

He saw the fear and worry in her face, even with her eyes closed and the sedative gently tugging her toward the Fade. Quietly, slowly, Fenris lifted one of his hands and began to stroke Hawke's hair, as he had done after her mother died. He was reasonably certain that Hawke had found it comforting, then.

It seemed that Hawke still did find it comforting, because she leaned into his hand, sighing, relaxing – Fenris smiled at that.

Fenris forgot, for now, that he had said he could not do this. He forgot that the others were present and watching. He forgot everything but her and alleviating her pain. It was all that mattered. Hawke had chosen to be in pain rather than risk dying without seeing him again, which wouldn't have been a risk at all if he'd simply been where he should have been to begin with: with her.

Fenris didn't deserve her forgiveness, but he owed her an apology for abandoning her to this because of his own cowardice. Hawke was asleep, or shortly would be, but Fenris realized he needed to say it as much as she needed to hear it. Perhaps even more so.

"Paenitet me, Hawke. Debui hic," Fenris whispered, his voice as soft as his touch. Forgive me, Hawke. I should have been here.

Fenris continued to stroke her hair, though more slowly now. She is asleep, he thought to himself, smiling fondly. I will have to...

Then he heard a whisper as gentle as his own: "Non est vestra culpa, Fenris. Ego te absolvo." It is not your fault, Fenris. I absolve you.

He felt the sedative give Hawke over to the Fade completely, leaving him to the reality of several very confused and bemused allies – and one irritated abomination.

Because of his unwillingness to deal with his companions, his exhaustion, his relief, and his surprise, it didn't occur to Fenris until much later than it should have that Hawke didn't speak Tevene. She would have had to research those particular phrases, or, at the very least, have asked Orana for them.

It would keep him awake for days when he finally did realize it.