Midnight, The Hanged Man

"Maker I am soooooooo tired," Anders said as they put down all the backpacks.

Hawke kept feeling like Carver was beside her, like he was just supposed to be there. Like they were supposed to figure out what to do right now. It just seemed so unreal that he wasn't there.

"You going home?" Varric asked her.

She felt overwhelmed, like she was about to faint just thinking about it. How could she tell her mother? She wasn't ready. She needed time. Sleep.

"I guess I could get a room for the night," she said.

"You can stay here," Varric offered.

Fenris seemed to scratch his head way too hard. "I guess… you could stay at mine."

She thought about it. "Mansion does beat decrepit old pub."

"Not even sold anything yet and the money's gone to your head!" Varric teased.

"Let's wait for Satinalia to sell," she said. She rubbed her temples. "Maker, I can't even think right now."

"Let us go," Fenris said. "You need sleep."

"I do," Hawke said.

Night time, Fenris's Mansion

"So, they know your name and I don't?" he asked with a little grin as they ventured into the courtyard. "That is unacceptable. I demand satisfaction!"

"I don't like my name," she said. "And you've forgone satisfaction when you placed a bet on me."

"Fair enough," he said. "I will find out somehow."

"No, you won't."

They went inside.

"Have you considered opening up a bed and breakfast in here?"

"I imagine the Seneschal will be so impressed with that idea, not only will he look the other way at how I got the mansion, he'll even pat me on the back and invite me to his noble parties," he said sarcastically.

A loose painting collapsed to the floor in the main hall.

"It would take a long time to redecorate, though," she said, looking at him.

"I am running out of expensive wine bottles," he said, smirking. "I seem to be giving them away."

"Ah, then I'm running out of excuses to visit you," she said.

He chuckled. "You can visit me anytime," he said. "Just remember knocking was invented for a reason."

"Does it alarm you if I just walk in?"

"No… I know only one human insane enough to stomp around here ever so happily."

"I do like my stompy boots," she said, stomping.

He shook his head, amused. "They suit you."

"So, which room do I get?"

"Whichever you like."

Fenris couldn't fall asleep. He muttered some curse words and came out of his bed, resting his arms against the moonlit windowsill. Recent events were harassing his consciousness in an interminable cycle of analysis. He wanted to understand.

How did Hawke manage to heal him? Or, perhaps, how (and why) did the markings accept that, was the better question. He had always thought that the markings were inherently tied to Danarius. He thought that's how they allowed his healing but not others, how Danarius could track him no matter how far he ran. But this had changed things. This opened up the idea that the markings were really his own, or at least, that they had a mind of their own. Either way, it felt a little freeing. He looked at his arms.

"What were you thinking?" he said to them.

He thought of the strange looks he shared with Hawke. What changed between their eyes? Was it connection? Was it pity? He couldn't decide.

He thought of the starlit cavern. Was he a… sexual being now? Was he normal?

He thought of the inappropriate doctor and how he was surely never going to go see another. She was nice enough not to try studying him, but her warnings about the stigma only added to his reservations about seeking further help. He would have to figure it out on his own. He had to.

Despite feeling like life punched him in the gut with that diagnosis, he also felt life was opening up its gates, somehow. There could be more for him.

Lastly, he thought of Hawke's colourless face in the rain. How he ached at it, how he wanted her not to suffer. He was too aware, his mind too vigilant, to construct a silly story that would explain away his feelings. They were there, wherever they came from, and sooner or later they would demand satisfaction. He half-hoped she didn't return his feelings so he would spare her the myriad of problems he would give her.

What even was it that gave him these feelings? It wasn't her looks, that much was certain. That came later. It wasn't that she was a mage. That was quite the bone of contention. Was it that she cared so much about… everything? He thought of her as a cloying idealist, her passions misplaced and bound to give nothing. He even judged her for helping him. But she put her principles into practice, and look where it got her—she had people she could trust, and that trusted her decisions. A whole squadron of strangers who gladly followed her into the Void. She even had cynical elves fawning over her in secret.

Maybe it was her open-mindedness? It had worked in his favour, of course. But she was way too open-minded for her own good.

Perhaps his hurt recognised her hurt. Perhaps she reached at him in a way others couldn't. Perhaps it was that simple.

He looked up at the moon. It seemed as if there was great luminous continuity there, as if fate, his past decisions, were all suddenly connected and vitally important.

"Knock, knock!" she said loudly through the door.

He let his head down and chuckled. "Come in."

She was wearing some discarded satin bath robe. It didn't suit her one bit.

"I hope you don't mind," she said, pulling lazily at the belt.

"I don't care."

She sized him up. "I could've sworn you slept in that armour."

He looked down at himself, at his black jammies. "No, no. Self-punishment seems to be more your thing," he said, putting his hands in his pockets.

"Ouch," she said, leaning on the door. She looked at it. "So, surprise! I can't sleep."

"I can't sleep either," he said, gesturing to the armchairs.

He brought back two cups of tea and sat down.

"So, I know why I can't sleep," she said, warming herself with the cup. "What's keeping you up?"

With an arm crossed, he hid behind his cup of tea. "Existential questions."

"Like why do I exist?" she said. "Didn't you already go through that painful line of questioning in your childhood?"

He shook his head. "Freedom isn't that simple."

"Ah," she said, nodding to herself. She held the cup with both hands and grinned. "Thoughts are… imprecise. I consider conversation to be one of the greatest gifts to mortalkind."

"Oh?" he said, unconvinced. "Aren't words deceiving?"

"They can be, but conversations aren't only about words. They're mostly about body language, and about bonding. Then they also have that helpful effect of keeping you from arguing with yourself. It's different when you speak your thoughts out loud."

He smirked. "Because arguing with you is such a fountain of clarity."

"There is a functionality to arguing," she said with a grin.

"Is that so?" he said with a deep gaze. He slumped in the armchair, cheek in hand, and rested his leg on the ottoman like a man would do in his own home.

"Look where it got us," she said, gesturing to the room. Her legs curled up chaotically in the armchair. "We're actually speaking like civilised people."

"An… illogical turn of events," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"But why?" she said, drinking. "Even when your reasoning was petty, I learned things about you. We spoke of our values, our beliefs, our view of the world. It revealed our differences are not irreconcilable."

What an interesting point. "You think I wasn't always petty?"

"I think you were trying to understand," she said, shrugging. "You're still trying to, aren't you?"

What was this sorcery coming from a shit mage? "You think you can see through me?"

She broke into laughter. "No! You confuse me at every turn!"

He laughed, rolled his eyes.

"What?"

"Nothing, just…" he said, shrugging. "Ditto?"

She snickered at him, drinking her tea.

He looked at the fire, felt a little brave. "So, you don't hate me anymore?"

She made a clownish face, weighing her answer. "I guess not."

"What changed?" he said.

"Nothing, really. I don't know." She looked down. "I guess I've gone through our debates in my head and realised they weren't a waste of time."

"Praise Andraste, you've come to your senses and accepted the Chantry," he said sarcastically, smiling.

She laughed, and put her cup down. "No," she said flatly. "I've met a lot of haters in my life. I just think you're coming to me in good faith. You ask a lot of questions. It's… refreshing."

"Oh?" he said, rubbing his chin.

"Few really ask. On the contrary, they try to find something that they have already shaped into their minds—justifications, confirmations, forms of consolation. Few ask and are prepared for the answer to destroy them."

"Is that what the answer will do to me?" he said with half-lidded eyes.

"Probably," she said, taking back her drink. "Just give it a few more years."

So, she really was considering keeping him in her circle. He thought what the years may look like ahead. He thought of himself raising a flag for mage rights, and found it so implausibly hilarious he started huffing.

But then he thought of the tamer, more plausible questions about mages and magic on his mind. He looked down. "I have wondered if I was wrong."

"And?" she said, drinking.

"And nothing. I maintain my beliefs," he said, crossing his arms. "But it's interesting to be at your side. I will give you that."

"What makes it interesting?"

"You are a woman of few preconceptions. You follow your own moral code. You've thought about it. Really thought about it." He gestured. "Struggled with it. If I'm not mistaken, you're at it still."

She sighed heavily. "Yeah, I haven't figured it all out."

"You just want a purpose," he said.

"I have a purpose," she said firmly.

"Which is?" he said, cheek in hand.

"I want to emancipate people. Make them see their own value. Everyone has it. No matter what the powers that be say."

He laughed and removed his hand from his cheek. "Oh boy. I can just see you now. In a couple of years, you'll be campaigning in the Alienage for equal rights."

"And why not?" she demanded.

"Because it will only get you in trouble."

"I like trouble," she said, grinning.

He shook his head, grinning back. "Why not seek equality for yourself?"

"I can do two things," she said confidently. "I can do many in fact."

"Evidently," he said to himself. "I just don't understand how you can believe people are just innocent and worthy. They are not. It is a savage garden. Not even civilisation can hide away our nastiness."

"Ah, the veneer theory," she said, putting her cup down and slouching into her armchair. "People are all just inherently bad. They're petty and primitive, narcissistic and greedy, jealous, resentful, maniacal, and they need a belief or a system to keep them in check."

"Exactly."

"Well, not all people are innocent. But we start out that way, don't we? Then life happens to us. It changes us. Sometimes it turns us into monsters. Sometimes the very system that was supposed to help us turned us inside out. But most people are redeemable. Most people are just a kindness away from believing they could be."

"Do you think me one of those people, then?"

"Of course."

He laughed. "Your godless empathy is strong. I'll give you that. But I am not an innocent. I killed for a living."

"But were you truly willing to?"

"Yes, I was willing. Then again, I knew those people to be bad people. It felt like justice, even if it served the games of another tyrant."

"You don't seem to be so willing now," she said, narrowing her eyes. "Unless they're slavers or abusers."

"I know who I want to punish. They don't need to be mages."

"Do you think that makes you bad?" she asked.

He went deep into his thoughts.

"I don't think it makes me good," he said honestly. "I think it makes me driven by rage and retribution. I think it comes from a bad place. It's not enough for a life. For truly living."

"So, you want a purpose," she said, holding her chin.

"I suppose I do," he said, thinking. He raised a little eyebrow. "Do you have one for me?"

She smiled and shook her head. "Just keep me company. I like talking to you. Maybe we'll figure it out together."

He gave her a little unconvinced smile. "I can do that." He looked to the fire again. Perhaps he hoped it would fill him with more confidence. He was in awe of her, the radiance of her warm eyes and the strong way in which she spoke.

"What are you thinking?" she said.

"Nothing," he said, hesitated. "Well, it's just a bit hard to find you insufferable now."

"Eh," she said in amusement, letting her arm fall on the chair arm. "Give it time."

He consulted the fire once more. "Who would have thought dragons and demons would bring us closer?"

"A bit too close, in some cases," she said, flashing her eyebrows.

He chuckled and cleared his throat. "We're already joking about it, are we?"

"I am determined to," she said, laughing. "I mean it could have gone so, so wrong."

"Because you weren't yourself?" he asked, containing his anxiety.

She hesitated a little, but nodded to herself.

"Because neither of us were," she said. "I mean, I'll give you this—" She gestured towards him. "You're hot. It wasn't like it came out of nowhere. But it would have been non-consensual."

He agreed. But did that mean she thought he found her hot? Was it wise to say that out loud? Probably not. In fact, it would be a big mistake. He wasn't sure if 'being hot' was all that brought her to him. He wouldn't like it if that was the truth. But he was basking in the compliment.

"I'm hot, am I?" he said, cheek in hand. "Is that all am I to you?"

"Nope," she said with a clownish smile. "Is that all I am to you?"

"It wasn't even something I'd considered," he said confidently. But he lost it the next second. He looked away. "I suppose I am slow to notice such things."

"You know, that's not a bad thing," she said.

"Good," he said with a contained smile. "I take comfort in my time."

"Is that what's most important to you?" she said, studying him. "That you have command over your own time?"

"Absolutely," he said.

"I knew there was an anarchist in you, underneath all that cynicism!" she said enthusiastically.

"Well, you won't be seeing him holding a flag in the Alienage with you."

"What is it with you and other elves? Don't you feel any connection to them?"

"I know what it's like to be an elf. I don't need to be reminded of it."

"Is that it? It just embitters you, so you look away?"

"You say that as if it's a small thing," he said, visibly hurt.

She saw that, and changed her tune. "I'm sorry. Make me understand."

"I've crossed a continent, from slavery to freedom, and yet I see little difference for my people," he said bitterly. "It hurts. It hurts me deeply. What does that leave me to hope for?"

"That you could be the change the world needs?"

He laughed. "I have my own problems. I am not a good example for others to follow."

"Well, not yet. You're just at the beginning."

Maybe she could see the value in people, the light that hid behind the centuries of internalised oppression. But he still didn't believe. It was like a paradox. There he was, an Andrastian with no faith in the world, and there she was, an atheist with a lot of it.

She seemed to be off somewhere now. "What are you thinking?" he said.

She came out of her reverie, smirked a little. "Nothing." She hid behind her cup. "Nothing dignified."

"Oh?" he said, his eyebrows inviting her to elaborate.

"I just didn't expect you to be so…" she said, crossing her arms.

He made himself comfortable. "Go on, lay the compliments on me," he said arrogantly.

She snickered. "… sculpted."

"It was not a pleasant process to get where I am."

"Surely not. But it makes me a little jealous."

"You and Aveline both, I presume."

"Don't hold it over her. You will regret it."

He snickered. "I bet." He thought about it. "You're both tougher than you look."

"Thanks."

"Whereas what do I have to console myself with? That my six-pack looks nice while I'm vegetating in bed?"

She chuckled. "You won't have to worry about that."

He felt vulnerable. He shouldn't have tried to compliment her. He just absent-mindedly trashed himself.

"Thank you," he said, contained.

"You don't have to thank me every time. In fact, you're banned from thanking me!"

"Okay," he said, amused.

"If anyone's to thank it's my dad. He taught me those tricks," she said. "He had chronic pain."

"You said he died."

"Yeah, a little before the Blight." She poured the rest of her tea on the floor. "Rest in peace, you silly, silly man."

He resolved not to scold her. Even if it wasn't alcohol, she was pouring one out for the fallen. "I gathered you didn't get along."

"Sometimes we'd be like best friends. Then it hurt more when we fought," she said, very bittersweet. "I try to remember him for the good parts. He did always believe in me, in his own very controversial way."

"You said he 'policed' you?" he prodded.

"Something like that," she said with high, tired eyebrows. "I had my very own templar."

"It's good to have one," he said. He thought about it. This was personal, not a debate. "Let me know if I'm being insensitive. I don't always know it."

She was impressed by that. "Well, look at you, Mr Empathetic."

"Don't expect much. It's not where I shine."

"Practice makes better."

"Speaking of which… did you use to practice magic?" he prodded a little more. He was sure he was nearing the end of her concessions.

She rolled her eyes. "I went to all his damned classes. Studied real hard."

"It just didn't spark anything in you?"

"Not in the way swords did. That's where I shine."

"Quite." He looked down, remembered something. "That is something I failed to appreciate about you."

"Which is?"

"You are trying to be more than you are, than what you've been given. It is not a path for the faint-hearted; I should know."

"Wow, stop. Save something for our wedding vows."

He chuckled. "I promised I'd practice my flattery for your next visit, didn't I?"

"You are a man of your word," she said approvingly. She let her head fall back. "Oh, Andraste. If Varric could see us now."

"His head would explode."

"A truly avant-garde coat of paint!"

He chuckled some more. "Then the mage would suspect we were possessed by spirits of compassion, while the pirate would bet all her money we hate-fucked into agreement."

She broke into laugher. "That is too accurate."

He felt relaxed, for once. And with her of all people. He felt closer to her, but not because he was being driven by a demon. More by a sweet sensation of safety to be himself. The better kind of naked.

"What would Aveline say. Do you know?" he said, holding his chin.

Her eyes doubled in size as she thought about it. "She'd be thankful I finally have something new to say!"

He chuckled. "Why? Is it the same old story? 'That Tevinter little shit!'" he said, using her accent.

"A lot more colourful variations," she said, winking.

"Well," he said, resting his intertwined hands on his belly. "Perhaps you will have better words now."

She looked sad suddenly, sighed a little sigh. "We'll see what the future holds." She stood up, thanked him for the company, and prepared to leave for her chambers.

He collected the cups.

"Hildegaard," she said in the doorway. He almost dropped a cup. "That's my name."

Quite foreign for his tongue, but he tried not to botch it. "Pleased to meet you, Hildegaard."

"Don't call me that, though. I hate it."

"I'll use it when I'm mad at you."

She looked down, and knuckled into the door. She didn't think this through. She knuckled it some more and said good night.

So silly, he thought, shaking his head and smirking.

Night time, The Fog Dream

This was the nightmare he kept having since Seheron. He was in a sad, foggy forest. The earth was burned, the trees half-destroyed. He would walk through the fog for what felt like hours.

Then there always came the two-headed rooster. He would chase it through the fog until it led him to a big dark building, a theatre.

He would go inside, curious and scared. The audience was a mass of faceless wooden puppets.

Scene 1

The play always started with a dark-haired faceless, marking-less Fenris puppet, his chest bare and wearing dark navy high-waisted leggings, with his arms wide open and a foot up on his other calf. He had dark wings and a rose pink glass heart in his chest. He would dance an impressive ballet.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our play, the Flying Sad Man!" a strong presenter voice came out of nowhere. There was a puppet orchestra under the stage.

Scene 2

Dark-haired Fenris entered an iron maiden at the behest of a faceless puppet Danarius. The iron maiden flashed a million black smokey flashes as the boy screamed inside. Then the iron maiden doors would break open, and the faceless white-haired Fenris fell to the ground in his signature armour.

The glass brain fell out of his head and shattered on the ground, while the glass heart fell but remained intact. He half-picked himself up, tried to get his brain back, but the powder fell through his hands. He noticed the heart on the floor and crawled past Danarius to reach it. He grabbed the heart, but Danarius stepped on his wrist. Fenris kept onto his heart all the same.

Then Danarius bent over the kneeling Fenris with a dagger, and started clipping his wings.

"You deserve to be here," Puppet Danarius said.

"Yes, master," Fenris said, putting his heart back in his chest.

Danarius took out a new brain and put it in Fenris's head, then continued clipping his wings.

"You are nothing," Danarius said.

"Yes, master," Fenris said, holding onto his heart. The glass started to crack loudly.

"You only exist to serve me," Danarius said, cutting out his wings entirely and throwing them as if they were nothing.

"Yes, master," Fenris said. His new brain cracked loudly.

"You will do everything I say," Danarius said.

The brain kept cracking, shards falling. Fenris lit himself up blue and took out his glass heart. He smashed it in his hand and let the powder fall through his fingers.

"Yes… master," Fenris said. He stood up.

Scene 3

"Kill them!" Danarius said, pointing at some puppets.

Fenris took out his sword and killed them.

The curtain fell.

Danarius was sitting on a couch, drinking, while Fenris stood at his beck and call.

"Slap yourself!" Danarius commanded.

Fenris slapped himself as Danarius laughed.

"Harder!" the magister ordered.

Fenris slapped his face hard in the other direction.

Danarius held his belly from laughter. "Again!"

The curtain fell once more.

Danarius was reading letters at his desk, growing angry and frustrated. He came out of his office through a door, where Fenris was standing guard.

"Fuck me!" Danarius said.

Fenris looked down. "Yes, master."

Scene 4

Fenris was fallen on a beach as Danarius pulled out in a ship. Puppets in Seheroni dress came to him and made him stand up. Then they all looked in their pockets. Everyone put a little shard in his hollow chest until he had an incomplete, cracked heart.

Scene 5

Danarius pointed at the Fog Warriors and told Fenris to kill them. He stood up and drew his sword.

He slashed in one direction. With the swing, his heart cracked so loudly it was deafening. Hollow wing bones grew out of his back.

The orchestra played a violent crescendo as he slashed in another direction. His brain cracked loudly. Baby plumes grew out of the wing bones.

The violins and cellos reached a sonorous climax. He slashed the remaining survivor, and his heart fell into smithereens on the ground. He held onto his chest painfully and put a hand over his head. He fell to his knees.

"Come now," Danarius commanded.

The violins and cellos played a quiet, growing tune as full plumage grew on his wings. The string instruments screamed dramatically as Fenris stood up and flew away.

Scene 6

Fenris stood with a leg over a Tevinter soldier puppet.

"I'm sorry, Fenris!" the soldier shouted.

The elf stopped mid-slash. "You call my name now as if that means anything. Where was this courtesy back in Minrathous?"

"I hate Minrathous!" the soldier said. "I hate my job! I hate my life! I want to go to Rivain and open a pub! I don't want to recapture you! I know what Danarius did to you. He's insane! He's a monster. The world would be better off without him!"

Fenris took his leg off the soldier.

"Thank you!" the soldier said, picking himself up. "How can I ever thank you?"

"You will help me find my mind," Fenris said.

"Very well," the soldier said, shaking his hand. Wings grew out of the soldier as he searched his pockets. He put a glass heart shard in Fenris's chest hole.

Scene 7

A red-haired pig-tailed puppet with an intact rainbow brain frolicked through a door. She looked into a chest with a brain symbol on it, but only dust came out.

Puppet Fenris stepped on the stage. The clown mage came out and became startled. She shook her head as he looked down in disappointment.

"Please help me," Fenris said to her.

She took out her sword and the curtain fell.

Puppet Fenris leaned on Danarius's mansion with a compress on his head. The heart shard dangled outside of him and he tried to put it back into place. When Puppet Hawke and her friends come out, Fenris took out his heart shard and violently stabbed her.

She unbuttoned her coat, revealing a broken heart with pieces missing and screamed a wordless scream in his face. She took out a heart shard and duelled him. They sparred dramatically to the music, but she defeated him. As she had him on the ground, her boot rose over him, the string instruments reaching a climax. But she stopped herself and helped him up. The music became quiet and soft. Puppet Hawke and Puppet Varric searched their pockets and put two shards inside his heart hole.

"Wait, what's that behind your ear?" Hawke said, performing a magic trick. Her hand came out of his hair and she held a cracked brain. "You lost this?"

Scene 8

Puppet Hawke and Fenris were sparring with brain shards, their brains incomplete. "Wait, wait." She stopped them for a second, scratching her head. "Are we being dumb?"

"Of course not," Fenris said, and continued fighting her.

A puppet dragon came upon them and kicked Fenris. His glass members flew in different directions. Hawke distracted the dragon and picked up pieces of himself. She whistled loudly and used her sword as a baseball bat to throw them to him. In her distraction, the dragon flew and stepped on her. With an arm and a calf missing, Fenris became blue and killed the dragon. He fell down.

Hawke came to him and opened her coat, revealing the broken heart. "Come on, man, don't you trust me?"

The blue markings lit up his incomplete heart, as if to say yes. She searched her pockets, and growled in exasperation. She took out a shard out of her own heart and put it into his.

The puppet audience started clapping and cheering. The curtain fell and the presenter voice came back loudly.

"That's all, folks!" the entertaining voice said. "Stay around and don't miss our next fantastic play, Can You Feel The Sun?"

Fenris would exhale nervously and wait for the play to start. He hoped this was it. The play. His life before. But he would always look at the audience. He would always spot one faceless puppet or another that didn't have strings. The puppet skin would crack away and reveal a shadow figure that ran out of the theatre.

He chased the shadow figure through the fog, as he always did. It was an interminable and tiring chase.

He would always get surrounded by other shadow figures, small and short person figures with heads in the vague shape of wolves. They overwhelmed him and kicked him to the ground. They took turns kicking him in the gut as others cheered them and cursed him.

Fenris woke up screaming. He trembled all over in sweat and tears. He held his face in his hands and tried to calm himself.

His bedroom door was violently kicked open and Hawke came in with her sword raised.

"Oh," she said, her shoulders sinking. "Bad dream?"

Fenris closed his eyes and sighed. "Yes."

"I feel you," Hawke said, stepping out and leaving the door open.

He tried to steady his breathing and came up from bed. He could hear furniture being moved.

"Come with me," she heard her say, back in the doorway. She was holding several rugs and blankets.

Staring at the clear night sky, they lay on the roof, covered in blankets. The moon was full, while the second one, Satina, was barely visible.

"Why don't you sleep, Hawke?" Fenris asked her.

"I have too much on my mind," she said, an arm under her head. "Sometimes I have nightmares, too."

"So, this is about compassion," he said. He loved looking at the stars, knew all the constellations. Some of them could still be seen in the south of the continent. It was his favourite thing about the Free Marches. The skies were so clear here.

"You say that as if it's a small thing," she said, smirking at him.

"It isn't small," he said, looking at her. Then he looked up at the stars and pointed in a direction. "You see there, over Lowtown, there's a cluster of stars in the shape of an eye and a sword going through it?"

"Okay?" she said, squinting.

"Visus, the Watchful Eye," he said. "I thought it was… poetic. For our insomnia."

"Boy, you are just all kinds of sensitive, aren't you?" she said, smiling. She looked back to the constellation. "I like that."

Fernis contained his smile and went on. "Andraste's armies used this constellation to reach the Imperium. It is said that the point of the sword did not appear in the sky until Andraste's death."

"Wow," Hawke said, thinking about it. "So, I can use the stars to find my way," she muttered.

"Where are you going?" he said, amused.

"Nowhere," she said innocently. "What's your constellation then?"

"My constellation?" he said, thinking. He scanned the stars and, though it was one of his least favourite ones, pointed over the Gallows. "Servani, The Chained Man. You can see it everywhere in Tevinter, on the giant juggernauts that guard Minrathous."

"That's so sad," she said, shaking her head. "What would you like to be, if you could switch constellations?"

He thought about it, and pointed over the Chantry. "Solium. The Sun. It's widely considered to have depicted Elgar'nan, the elven ruler of the Gods."

"You want to be a god?" Hawke asked incredulously.

"No, I just want to feel enlightened, feel its warmth," Fenris said. "I've always felt like I can see the sun, but I can't feel it."

"Aww…" she said, but then squinted. "Wait. Didn't Merrill say Elgar'nan had, like, major anger issues?"

He laughed. "Well, I can't be perfect."

"You have some weird preferences when it comes to souvenirs," she said, laughing. "What's my constellation, then?"

"Hmm." He wondered if he should be spiritual or mean. He wished he could be both. "I can't decide between Eluvia and Kios."

"Oh, here we go," she said, bracing herself.

"Well, Eluvia is a constellation of sacrifice." He pointed over the Gallows again. "It's about a girl who escapes the lust of an evil mage, and her father sacrifices his life for her. She's seen in a lotus position, with clouds for a head."

"Maker, I hate that. Next."

He chuckled and pointed closer, over the Keep. "Kios is a constellation of chaos. It's widely considered to be the Old God Zazikel, the God of Chaos. He's seen as a flying spirit with wings holding a sword in the air."

"I am chaos!" she said proudly, raising her arms. "Kios preserve me!"

"Chaos preserving chaos," he said, shaking his head. "What a storm I have to suffer."

"Chaos organises me," she said, winking.

"Why do you hate Eluvia?" he pressed.

She immediately made disgusted sounds. "It's the same old shit like in Fereldan fairy tales. The girl saved by the man. All of them have a brainless little princess locked away and persecuted by an evil step mother, and a man comes to their rescue and she marries him, and it's always such a celebration at the end, because of course, the only way a woman has value is if she marries."

"But Eluvia is saved by her father."

"It doesn't matter. A girl with a head in the clouds saved by a man. I don't like it," she said, her tone becoming angrier. "Where's the fairy tale where the girl saves herself? Where's the tale where she's the hero?"

"I don't know any fairy tales," he said.

"It's the same in Hildegaard's Hair. She's persecuted by a witch who hates her beauty, 'cause it's always about fucking beauty, and a man climbs up her hair to help her escape the tower. She's known to be air-headed and stupid, and she gives him away twice by mistake. The guy loses his eyesight escaping the witch. But no problem, because blindness can be cured with marriage!" she said mockingly. "Though at least that one has some teamwork in it. And consensual sex."

"So, is that why you hate your name?" he said, amused.

"Yeah," she said, putting her other arm under her head. "But I'm not allowed to hate it. It's my grandmother's name."

"You're allowed to hate your name," he said. "I hate mine too."

"Really?" she said, looking at him.

He shook his head. He wasn't ready to face the tiger. "It means 'little wolf'."

"Awwwwwww," she said. He shot her a death glare. She pursed her lips and cleared her throat. "My bad. I meant—how awful! Bleh."

"It's a condescending name," he said, looking back up at the night sky. "It alludes to how the Neromenians took in wolf cubs and tamed them, eventually becoming the dogs of today."

"Alright, yeah, that's not great," she said.

"An appropriate name for a fighting slave," he said emotionlessly.

"Don't you have a family name?"

Ah, the uncomfortable questions. He resorted to a kind of truth that covered the other truth. "Slaves don't have last names."

"So inhumane," she said, shaking her head. She looked at him. "Would you like to make a different name?"

"Any suggestions?" he said, smiling a little.

"You could call yourself Elgar'nan, but I think Merrill might seriously hurt you," she said.

He laughed. "I am not a grandiose person."

"How about something simple, like…" She made a raspberry. "Ryan?"

Fenris frowned and grimaced. He took his hand out the blanket and pretended to shake hands with her. "Hi, my name's Ryan," he said with a straight face.

They both cracked into laughter, keeping the handshake.

He'd hoped she wouldn't take her hand away, so he pretended the cold was more important to him and "absent-mindedly" hid his arm away. She didn't break it.

"I like Rhys. Rhysandril," Fenris said, putting the other arm under his head. "I don't know what it means. I just like how it sounds."

"Would you like me to call you Rhys?" Hawke asked innocently.

He thought about it. "No," he said. "It's pointless. I wouldn't feel any different."

"I'll just keep hiding behind my family name," she said. She sighed a loud sigh. "I hope Carver is alright."

"The Hawke's are strong," he said. "I'm sure he made it through."

"I just don't understand why they couldn't tell me where their base is!" she said in frustration.

"The Wardens sounded Orlesian," he said. "And they knew Anders. Maybe he can help you track them down."

Her eyes flickered, and he felt her hand tighten on his. "You're a genius."

"I am pretty smart," he said with a little smile.

He didn't see it coming, but she kissed his forehead. She looked amused, snickering. "Thanks, Chained Man."

"You're… welcome, Chaos Woman," he said, touching his forehead.

Sunrise, The Hanged Man

A few days went by. Fenris couldn't find anyone familiar in the Hanged Man, so he knocked on Varric's door. He found him reading a letter with Aveline. They did not look happy.

"What's wrong?" he said, frowning.

Aveline looked like she wanted to murder that letter as she snatched it from Varric's hands and showed it to Fenris.

He had no idea what it said, and he felt a little panic and a lot of embarrassment. "I don't want to read this. Just tell me," he said, giving it back to her.

"Hawke's gone," Varric said, contained, fiddling with his tunic.

"What do you mean? Where did she go?" Fenris asked in alarm.

"Where do you think? To look for Carver," Aveline said, shaking her head.

"She said she didn't want us coming because it wasn't fair to ask, and she knew we'd say yes," Varric said, kicking the table.

He was so DAMN smart.

"We could catch up to her," Fenris said.

"No!" Aveline said, as if he was stupid. "Two squads lost in a fog? I won't have it!"

"At least she said she'd try and send letters," Varric said, sighing. "She also left us a shared bank account for the loot, and…"

"And?" Fenris said impatiently.

"Well, we're officially called the Wings Of Chaos mercenary company now... of which I am acting president," Varric said, all frustrated. Then he prepared himself. "And you and I are now acting co-owners of the Bone Pit." He smiled a fake, exaggerated smile. "Of the Bone Pit, Fenris."

"Venhedis fasta vas!" Fenris growled in annoyance.

"Good luck," Aveline said grumpily. "I need some air."

"Me too," Varric said, rubbing his forehead. He left the room.

Fenris spun around in confusion. "Lock?" he said.

"Oh, right."