I'm doing this. It's Christmas. I don't care. I'm gonna finish this damn thing.

"Wait, wait, wait. Before we split, I have an idea," Varric said while stopping the happening Fenris in place.

"Oh?" Fenris asked a bit angrily. "Is it hurting inside being all alone or will it only hurt my brain?"

Varric's face, albeit impassable, suggested something akin to controlled annoyance. "I'm… going to ignore that in our present situation." He stretched joyfully. "Anyway, are you hungry? I'm hungry."

Fenris looked at him.

"Best salmon in Hightown, I hear," Varric said with a lot of smiles.

Fenris failed to move a muscle.

"And if you're feeling more Lowtown-ish, there's always rat meat for a good price," Varric continued.

Not one feature twitched on Fenris' face.

"There's always someone who accidentally drools if they stare too much at the good stuff," Varric went on.

There it was, a flicker on Fenris' face as he took a step towards him, although Varric was unsure what the open slowly rising palm was for.

"And beans too, probably plenty to spill without notic— OK, OK. Please put that palm down, this is a public place and I'm not afraid to shout like a little girl!"

"Do I look like I give a damn?" Fenris said with murderous calm in his tone.

"The kitchens!" Varric said with the kind of pure enthusiasm one would only upon unravelling the secrets of the universe. But then again, that is largely dependent on character. If Fenris discovered the secrets of the universe, a third party would witness him as appearing uncomfortably deep in thought, as one would be when crucified between finishing a divine burrito or running like hell to the bog. Then the witness would see him lazily raising his head, no doubt from the burden of so much newly acquired, awe-inspiring knowledge , eyes straightforward beholding the world in this spiritually evolved perspective and anticlimactically mumble, "That's something."

"The kitchens," Fenris repeated flatly.

"We can talk to the servants," Varric said. "They always know something and there's always someone who's going to let the cat out of the bag for a good price."

"That's your thing. Why do I have to come?"

"Because you're a friendly face— Ok, maybe that's far away from the truth when I put it that way." He opened his palms. "You're an elf. You can be quite… frien— okay, non-hostile let's say, when you really, really want to."

Fenris resumed his position of being a statue.

"And you're young and have this aura of supreme, raw, untamed – Varric was illustrating, so at this point Fenris was extremely confused as to where he was going with this – manliness, I guess, you know, that, come on, you'd be the first to agree, even most humans don't have. Dwarves always have it, but we're a special case. Our blood is a bit different and goes different places in higher doses, you see— Ok, I'm going far-off topic, I know. Sorry. So, you're all man and shit, and some servants are elves… Some of them ladies – Fenris just stared at him with no substance –… lonely, semi-traditional ladies— Please tell me this is not gibberish to you, because if so, then I have no idea what you do with Hawke when you're alone."

Fenris' eyebrows had not moved an inch, but his inner ones were reaching his all the way up to his seventh chakra.

"You want me to whore my way to the truth?" Fenris said finally.

"I would say charm your way to the truth."

"The supposed difference being…?"

"That whoring is the worst case scenario," Varric said all-smiling. Fenris looked at him in disgust. "Truth be told, I just need you to be around, make small conversation if needed, just to let them know you're okay, and we'll sort something out. What do you take me for? I would never make my friends sell their bodies for information unless it was like the absolute last resort and nobody, you know, wanted me. But that's hard to imagine. Dwarves are beasts in— okay, okay, we'll walk together silently to the kitchen."

A few minutes passed.

"I think my imagination needs a mental enema," Fenris said calmly.

Kitchens

Stationed outside the kitchen were two Guards, one unfamiliar and one who they remembered as Guardsman Brennan.

"Ho there, guys, what are you lot doing here?" she asked in a half-friendly, half-policing tone.

"Well met," Fenris said impassively.

"Does anybody know you're down here?" she asked.

Varric was about to unleash the most complicated pile of bullshit he could think of to make her almost want to pay them to go in and shut up, but Fenris outran him:

"We just spoke with Guard-Captain Vallen."

"Ah, well, off you go then," Guardsman Brennan said at the utmost velocity of submission.

It was sheer terror and desperation for Hawke's sake that helped Varric not to grin and laugh and snort at what Fenris was trying to, nay, successfully pulling with great simplicity.

Upon entering the kitchen, they were struck by a higgledy-piggledy excess of smells. One could only hope that the smell of rat was coming from a distant animal trap, and all the family of cheese smells, both living relatives and dead, were coming from the cooking pot and not the other way around.

"Oh sweet mother of cheeses," Varric exclaimed and startled the whole room of servants. Eyes were now on him. He cleared his throat. "Ehem, that was a bit loud, wasn't it?"

"Only a bit, sir," an elven woman said, while she resumed chopping parsley.

"I just couldn't help it when I caught that absolutely delicious smell. What is it?"

"You mean that over there? Well, you'd think it's all melted cheese, but actually it's a very rare mix of—"

At this point Fenris blacked out.

Upon this liberation from all extern stimuli, he was consumed yet again by a rage most silent that one would never want to admit was the product of fear. And he'd grown used to such mechanics. He assumed the worst in anticipation because the worst always did happen, and in many other uncountable cases, the worst almost happened. The only reason the worst sometimes didn't happen was because, much like a spoiled young noble lady, it came around too late what with excessive window-shopping and debate over so many likely variants of itself that it probably got overwhelmed.

But that held no significance to him. Relying on the whims of Lord Chaos was for mad men.

On account of all the evidence of his recent history of such richness and odd nuance that he could paint a whole chapel with, it should have become obvious by this point that he was without a doubt crazy (If he had a silver for every time…), but he knew, he knew that he was definitely, without a doubt…—he sighed— trying his very best not to become mad.

And right then, in the middle of all that hopelessness, there it was, the solution to all his problems, just a step's way out the door, the thing that he'd been looking for all this time and he didn't even know it, and from the moment he saw her, the black-haired elven beauty that was standing in front of him was absolutely perfect, Maker only knows, if only she stopped blocking his damned view. He nodded politely, and the girl moved on. Now, there it was, the solution to all his problems, just a step's way out the door. It was a cauldron full of soot dye.

He looked to his right and to his left, twice, and without hesitating, dipped his whole head into the cauldron.

A few minutes later

Fenris knocked very hesitantly at the door, because each tap echoed around his skull.

"Enter."

Very lazily, Fenris brushed over his shoulder and pushed the door open. Its creak was a blunt axe across the front of his brain.

He always felt uneasy in the presence of Seneschal Bran. Come to that, he would probably feel uneasy in the presence of, I don't know, the Grand Enchanter or Viscount Dumar– but that was different, that was down to species. Whereas he'd known Seneschal Bran since he came into the city, met him quite a few times upon Hawke's dealings with the Viscount, and the time they spent listening to him yapping away he regarded as rather unnecessary and worthy to be forgotten, to a point. You see, down to the most primitive of ranks among men, Bran was never a leader. He did not have the strength or stamina for it. And after all, what was the point in being a leader? Behind every leader there are a couple of nobles just waiting for him to die, usually of causes not to be discussed, and cheerfully bucking for promotion. He'd known this to be true everywhere he went, the Imperium included. Being a leader is not a job with long-term prospects. But in every social system, legal or otherwise, there's always some pale-skinned youth with no hope for physical labour who's given an ambiguous rank and allowed to stay on the inside because he's the one who comes up with all the clever ideas, usually to do with allegedly unclaimed lands, gullible old people and legal loopholes; this was Bran's natural place in the order of things.

He went from being a banker (now there's a line that needed some scribal proof-reading, he thought) to Master of Coin to Administrative Assistant and Chief Advisor to the Viscount. He'd probably always showed promise, given his diplomatic flair and rhetoric finesse that for generations helped snakes crawl rather snuggly up the legs of kings and queens and compel them to think that it was a rather brilliant idea to help the bad guys instead of the hero and then beg for mercy at the end of the story.

It also didn't help that every time someone presented him with their own perspective or idea, his facial muscles would move very, very slowly in such a way that one very, very quickly understood that he was thinking you were stupid. It was that kind of simple arrogant subtlety that averted people in his position from getting into official trouble by speaking their true minds.

In the grand chess table of life, Bran could very easily be a bishop. Bishops move diagonally you see, so they often turn up where the kings don't expect them to be. The Viscount, he thought in amusement, was exactly like the King in any game of chess. He stood on his arse at the back, and let everybody fight their war for him, and when each and every other piece was taken down, he could only dance around every two squares on the table with a great black feeling in his stomach that he was more screwed than the most well-paid hooker at the Blooming Rose.

Hawke was undoubtedly a Queen, ironically at that. She figured out that no one is striking you with thunder if you choose to move forward, backwards or diagonally. She considered all the options at her disposal and used them as wisely as she could with no friendly fire. More often than not, there was no way to escape her. And she knew that one of the most powerful ways of winning at chess is sacrificing the Queen herself.

Meredith, she was the Queen on the opposite side of the table.

Fenris… well, Fenris was a Knight. He was that in-your-face, yet often ignored piece that had the backs of any other piece, and if played wisely, and with a bit of ignorance from the opponent, was often that one winning piece that ensured a Queen does not need to be sacrificed.

Upon thinking this, he suddenly had a strange feeling of … endearment? No. Focus. He would give more thought to this metaphor another time.

Now, Bran, well, if Bran was stationed on the other side of their table, was yet to be seen.

But he worked his way up in the city, whereas, he himself would be first to admit, Fenris had merely worked his way along. Ever since he acquired the status of a social being (apparently being aware of this is not necessary), every time he seemed to be getting anywhere, he spoke his mind, or said the wrong thing. Usually both at once.

But he spoke the truth.

This was not the time for such things.

Snc Bran rummaged in the papers of his desk.

"How may I help you?" Seneschal Brain said flatly. It was that expectant, statue look that asked what in heavens are you doing here and very politely invited you to bugger off.

It didn't take long for Fenris' slowly regenerating synapses to squish back into place and realize he knocked at the wrong office.

"I'm… not sure."

If Snc Bran wore glasses, he'd have peered at Fenris over the top of them.

"Are you… lost?"

Fenris didn't answer.

Snc Bran sighed and brushed through his papers mechanically, and then, very tiredly, let them all drop on his desk. "I do not have time— his eyes narrowed – Wait, you seem very familiar."

"It is possible."

"You work for the Amells, do you not?"

Oh, I'm sure the family crest attached to my belt had nothing to do with refreshing your perfect memory, he thought. And then he realized, he still had the family crest attached to his belt, after all that work what with sticking his head into a cauldron full of liquid soot meant for dyeing national mourning flags.

"I have associated with them in the past, yes."

"Anders, was it?"

What did you just call me, you son of a whore?

"Rhysandril," he said quickly.

"Ah, yes, of course. I apologize. I have a rather bad tendency to confuse elven names with one another."

Ten, nine, eight…

He sighed. "I am sure you are not here to clean the barracks or play lullabies on the harp– seven, six… – so unless you have some other matter to resolve with me, civilian entrance to the court is that way and witnesses go through there."

Fi—fuck.

Fenris turned to stone for a moment, a likely result of looking too much directly into Bran's eyes. The eyebrow was reaching its maximum level of patience.

Fenris always told the truth. Even if that meant nothing.

"I was told I should consult with you."

"By who?" Snc Bran asked in calm alarm.

"I spoke to Guard-Captain Vallen."

"I see," Bran said with a scrutinizing look. He turned around with his hands together at his back and gazed at the window behind his desk. "Quite honestly I do not know which would have a more bombarding outcome, the Qunari clearly not in any rush to leave or this ridiculous, unorthodox litigation."

It was still unclear to him what the latter entailed, so he went for the former.

"At least Qunari are significantly more upright in their demands," Fenris said, because it was the only thing he could say that he knew to be true. Bran looked down. "There is not much beating around the bush with them."

"Yes," Bran said. "Significantly more demanding, too, I should believe. But I digress."

"The litigation," Fenris said flatly. What litigation?

"Truly better timing must have existed," Bran said in reduced annoyance, turning around to look at him. "All eyes and ears are dying to see who comes out victorious, but the one's object of worry should not be the winner, but what comes after that."

"What do you mean?" What comes after what? What litigation?

"At the end of the day, no matter which argument survives, it will devastate the very base of this ruling system," he said calmly, eyeing Fenris fixedly.

"Because of all the other threats hanging by a thread?" he asked redundantly.

"The aggregation of which will shake all people and this Office."

Truthfully, Fenris said, "I do not see how this 'litigation' could have any immediate or long-lasting effect." What litigation?

Snc Bran sighed, turned a bit and raised one hand from his back to illustrate. "Kirkwall has always survived, thrivingly I might add, for many good reasons. The same reasons why it had once belonged to the very backbone of the Imperium."

Fenris' eyebrows came together. "The slaves."

"That is outrageous," Bran said calmly. "I am not speaking of tools of a nation. It has nothing to do with it."

"Then?"

"It is as the Guards say," Bran said, and looked out the window. "Location, location, location."

"Indeed," Fenris conceded.

"The heart of all trade from the North to the South, of prime matter and ideas. Of everything. Kirkwall is the gateway, the door, the pocket universe, as it were. But it has always had a crack, a hole, a blind spot. And I'm afraid this we had never had the means or the time to give our full attention to in order to mend it, on various accounts of – he waved in annoyance – wars and revolutions and plagues and philosophical disputes. This crack, the fact that it has not yet unfolded and shaken the earth, is a matter of Office effort on behalf of everyone and everything."

"I think you are getting far-off topic, sir," Fenris said calmly. WHAT LITIGATION?

"My point is," Seneschal Bran said with half-lidded, politely hostile eyes, "That in order for Kirkwall to go along uninterrupted, to achieve this time and resources to mend the crack, these disruptive outer and inner threats have to be removed quickly and just as intelligently."

Fenris became tired of this anti-Qunari way of beating around the bush. "What would be the outcome of this one little 'threat'? No matter the winner?"

Seneshal Brain looked annoyed at Fenris, the outer disruptive threat to his process of thought. He began to walk, waving his hand in various explanatory directions and said:

"If the mage's mother is found innocent, upon her immediate release from the official norm of Templar jurisdiction, and of course, expressly, from Templar punishment, quite a lot of residential and international eyes will soon follow. Maker forbid, what with it causing massive disputes and ruptures within and without an angry and unsatisfied Templar Order and a Knight-Commander feeling completely flipped, as it were, it is possible this event will reach the ears of the Divine Herself and attract even more unwelcome forces. And that is at its worst case. The Circle could see it as a window of opportunity to demand more. Civilian families with Circle mage relatives could demand more. Word of it would spread right to our friendly neighbours, Orlais and Ferelden, and to the other Circles in the Free Marches. Kirkwall would instantly and without our will become known as some sort of notorious "Defender of Mages", we'll be seen as heretical rebels taking advantage of the holy system through politics that allow loopholes. So as you can see, the best case still doesn't look quite – Bran rolled his eyes – peachy."

Fenris' heart already started to spike from the words 'mage' and 'mother' found in a sentence suggesting trial and Templars.

"And if not?" he asked nonchalantly.

"If she is found guilty, but punished under civilian law, roughly the same outcome will arise. People will see national authority as another chance, a place of refuge, a loophole in the system of the Chantry. Both that and the Order will, again, pardon my language, feel flipped."

"Third and lastly?" Fenris begged.

"If it is agreed to give her fate back in the hands of the Templar Order, the Office of the Viscount will still be looked upon as rather 'rebellious', as it were, diplomatic relations could get rather rusty and as for the populace, well, opinions are like fruit flavours. No matter how many there are, none will prevail on a cake, and none of them will matter if the other half is poisoned." He accented the last word slowly, which gave Fenris something to further think about.

"I think I understand," Fenris said. I don't understand.

"If you have any insight to, at the least, alleviate this turn of events, I would strongly suggest in favour of sharing," Seneschal Bran said vertically.

"With you or with the court?" Fenris said. Where's Hawke?

"Both and either, although be careful with what you disclose. Highly personal affections to a cause are never well-received in your favour; I'm sure you know."

"Oh, I certainly do," Fenris said impassively.

"Anything you have in mind at present, if you wish to share?" Seneschal Bran asked just as impassively, although Fenris detected a small fraction of desperation.

I think I am utterly lost and where the hell is Hawke? Whose mother?

"I think the Chantry and Templar Order's attention averted from the Qunari problems for a brief period of time is exactly what the Office needs to find a way to ameliorate them. And whatever happens here is only the business of the Office." He coughed and gesticulated. "In broad terms, whoever has a problem with the outcome, I say, can deal with it."

Bran raised an eyebrow in surprise. "That's exactly what Lady Hawke said."

Why am I not surprised, he thought to himself.

"Qunari are known for having an abundance of patience. I am not sure where exactly we are located on this spectrum, however." Bran raised the eyebrow again, so Fenris quickly added, "Not that I think they are actually a physical threat, but what is this city known for if not for great diplomacy?"

Seneschal Bran curled a lip, hands back together at his back. "Finely marinated shrimp, I hear," he said.

A few minutes later

Soon after, upon Fenris' return, he found Varric playing magic card tricks on a Guard in a lonely corner. He left quite excited, and more so annoyed.

"Varric," Fenris said, his voice the touch of a very igneous blade.

"Fenufen," Varric said.

He ignored this. "I told you to keep an eye out and see if you can find something, not muck about with your pitiable nonsense."

"And with that clear lack of trust and respect, I won't tell you what I just found out in exchange for teaching that guy how to impress his friends over drinks."

"What a relief, because I was about to tell you what I have just found out directly from the source of none either than Mr Twitchy-Twitchy Pretentious Eyebrow."

"Kiss my ass," Varric said angrily. They stared at each other. A few seconds passed. "Truce?"

"Fine." He rolled his eyes. "Well?"

"I thought you had the more important news directly from the source of none either—"

"From what I understood, the mother of a recently discovered mage was to undergo Templar punishment for harbouring aforementioned mage."

"AND?" Varric asked angrily, already getting his drift.

"And somehow, although I can't imagine off the top of my head how, the Viscount ordered this matter to be decided in his court. The defence is Knight-Commander Meredith with her loonies, and the mother is represented by a powerful noble."

"I thought that people who willingly give shelter to mages aren't supposed to be, well, as you put it, 'punished'," Varric said. "I thought they're only given a light scolding and given a free introductory lesson about the 'dangers of magic, ugly demons and evil mages going bonkers'," he finished mockingly.

"Incorrect," Fenris said. "They do have the authority, but only in special cases."

"Like?"

"Like—" Fenris half-shouted and tapped his thigh in anger, "Mages who they know committed a crime, or those who are already possessed, or are known to be dangerous, come to that also awful at controlling their powers."

"That's stupid," Varric shouted.

"These are the facts," Fenris said impassively.

"Well they are stupid facts!" Varric shouted again. "How do we know this is not just a scam of Knight-Commander Coocoo-Crackers because she can't take no for an answer?"

"I read their code," Fenris said in an almost ashamed tone, looking down. "It is pen and paper."

"You sure make interesting choices of literature in your spare time," Varric said with his arms crossed.

"It was necessary," Fenris said coldly, looking down. He curled a lip with negative emotion, looking as though he wanted to sigh. Varric didn't need more to understand why Fenris felt it was necessary for someone to know the Templar Code just in case.

This was the metallic feeling in your stomach when you realized that this 'just in case' was happening now and you still felt rather unequipped for it, twice as mentally unprepared, and thrice as violated in the arse than you'd thought you'd be when the time came.

"Well, shit," Varric said.

Fenris continued to remain silent and deep in thought. Varric started walking back and forth.

"But wait," Varric said, and stopped. "What I found out from Clay-brained over there was that indeed, there is an allegedly powerful defence in the woman's favour—"

"Excellent—"

"Wait," Varric said grimly, raising his palm at him. "Apparently the first small meeting, you know, where they discuss the matter to a magistrate and he has to appoint a judge, has already taken place."

"Well that much is obvi—"

"It's him, Fenris," Varric said in the sternest tone, eying him fixedly. "That son of a bitch from three years ago."

Whatever muscles that, with significant effort, had been helping Fenris keep Fenris all in place, collapsed. They let go, as if all his weight was concentrated on his neck and shoulders, and he appeared to make the most realistic impression of a ghost. He didn't even curse.

But then, with the swiftest motion that Varric barely had the visual capability to notice, Fenris' face became the scariest, most accented incarnation of pure anger.

"Why are we not there?" Fenris shouted. "Why have we not been called?"

Varric snorted angrily. "Oh I think you already know the answer to that question," he said.

"Rancida, miserabila femina," Fenris muttered through his teeth, his facial muscles still intact with anger. (*Disgusting, wretched woman)

"Friend, you can curse that bitch all you want, but neither side wants us to be there," Varric said despondently.

Of course…

Let's make a progressive dinner for Varric, but a few days off so he wouldn't expect it. Let's suggest very subtly to Varric to buy loads and loads of Ferelden poison, so we would all be scorched-dead and drunk, and in need of a week to get out of our hangover. COME TO THAT, let's make all our friends very upset for one reason or another in order to compel them to be in bad need of a drink. Let's act as if this was aaaaall just a big fat fucking coincidence.

If someone came up to him and asked: 'Protection and sacrifice. What's the first person who comes into your mind?" the mighty annoying spectre of Hawke would soon occupy, nay, conquer his whole head, smashing all buildings and bridges, staircases and lampposts on the streets, terrifying residents, birds and gargoyles alike. Now if said person would follow up with the proverbial question: "Are you sure?" he would have laughed. Oh, he would have laughed.

I am terribly stupid, Fenris concluded.

But then a voice added a very helpful personal note: If I am terribly stupid, then Hawke's stupidity is so vast that it would reach into the crust of the earth and to the nucleus itself, and on the other end, fly out and away from the atmosphere and reach the very void, no ifs ands or buts about it.

And with that, he realized things made less sense than before. Hawke was perfectly free this morning. Was she called on to testify first, and then to be put into shackles? Aveline also had a point. If she were in trouble, why would the Viscount wish to summon her? Or was that the cover lie?

He wouldn't be at all surprised if Hawke quick-wittedly decided to take advantage of the Viscount's desperation with the Qunari and strike a bargain with him, and then this happened.

"Fenris."

But still, no matter how many times he tried to quickly twist and turn every detail in his head, it made little to no rational sense.

"Oi!"

And even if there was some missing detail that he could find to give light to all this—

Whoomph.

Rudely awoken, he felt two hands reach mercilessly at his waist and turn him around.

He was made to look up at the Office hall, out of which the Viscount came out, followed by Seneschal Bran and two scribes, and then he saw Hawke appear with a fair-haired, sturdy-looking Templar he roughly remembered as Cullen walking side by side. Two other Templars who were stood out of the Office in wait immediately followed them, and they could barely see anything of her. The body of Guardsmen stationed on the right in the upper level made way and they disappeared.

"I will kill Aveline," Fenris said with an eerie calm.

"Put Meredith second on your blacklist for me, will you?" Varric muttered.

"And then I will kill you," Fenris said just as calmly.

"Yeah! Wait, what?"

Fenris turned at him and very hastily, Varric had to admit, it was the first time he was actually terrified of him.

With each step he took towards him, Varric took one backwards.

"For not telling me shit about anything."

"I barely knew anything to begin with, you asshole," Varric shouted. "And as soon as I knew something of substance I ran my lungs out to you and told you!"

"That is irrelevant," Fenris growled, staring at him. He pointed at him. "I could have figured all of this out sooner if only you'd tell me all those 'unsubstantial' details."

"Yeah, sorry, I keep forgetting you're a mastermind genius and semi-clairvoyant," Varric said angrily. "Besides, what could you have done even if we magically figured it all out?"

Fenris' nostrils suddenly widened, his eyes narrowed even more, and he turned away. "I could have killed Hawke sooner," he heard Fenris growl.

"So before you get your ass thrown in jail for murder in the fourth degree or flee the city before they can catch you and have all of Tevinter and the Free Marches after you, can you take a brief moment of tranquillity please and perhaps meditate on what we can do now?"

Fenris remained silent, fists still drawn.

"Well?" Varric shouted desperately.

"I'm meditating," Fenris said.

In the way he did it, one would be surprised if a rage demon didn't come flaming out of the floor.

"Find your way inside. I don't care how, but you must occupy a seat in that courtroom," Fenris issued impassively.

"And you?" Varric asked.

"I have consulting to do," Fenris said and walked away.

Seconds later, Varric was walking towards the courtroom with a very uneasy feeling that something was very much out of place. He walked on.

Some more minutes later

Fenris busied himself contemplating every wall, staircase and door of the main hall. Never in his life – ironically – had he felt this lost. After several minutes of this complete absence of relevant thought, he began arguing with himself. And when that was over, he considered his options.

He could go and kill Aveline now, or he could go kill Varric, although that would seem rather counterproductive in so many ways but one, or he could stay here and rummage some more.

Well, he was closest to the barracks. He started to descend the stairs.

Then it dawned on him that he was alone. In the Keep. With the Seneschal's permission to be there, if the 'courtroom is that way' and 'if you can share anything with us' could be parlayed into 'permission'. And he was good with words. Truth was what Fenris told. Honesty was sometimes not the same thing.

He knew that the trial was not for another half an hour. He also knew that Viscount Dumar, Seneschal Bran and their body of assistants exited the Office. He also had the delight of being certain that Guardsmen are almost supernaturally stupid during the day. Well, stupider.

He made his way to the stairs and just as he took a left, a Guard stopped him.

"State your business," he said.

Fenris weighed him up and decided this was not the face attached to the body he saw stationed earlier when the Viscount and the others came out from the Office Hall.

"I was sent here for the Seneschal," Fenris said. He was appalled at the ease with which the truth turned into something that was almost a lie, just by being positioned correctly. "And I'm already late."

Perhaps the Guard quickly forwent some basic policemen mathematics and decided with all the hubbub going on, that he'd rather not carry Fenris by the back of his shirt to the Office and make the Seneschal very upset by hassling his 11 o'clock.

With his way clear, Fenris went up the stairs and entered the Office Hall. Oh, he would get into so much trouble. He just hoped the laws of chaos wouldn't make it that this door was guarded by someone clever.

But why? He was just an unremarkable elf. And the Keep belonged to the city, more or less. The City Guard would probably prefer him not to go in there, but Fenris felt in his bones that you couldn't run the city on the basis of what the City Guard liked. He spent too much time in the barracks not to very well know this. It seemed as though in their ideal world, everyone spent their time indoors, with their hands on the table where you could see them.

The doors to both offices were left half-open. Guarding them was a very familiar face which appealed to Fenris' infallible instinct for beauty along the lines of wanting to hurl. Guardsman Navel, his name was? No, Nabil. Yes, more fat than sturdy, a huge nose and a dim-witted face altogether. He was the one who opposed them from going into that cave and fetch Magistrate Vanard's son. The more familiar names and faces he saw, the more he understood the grand scheme of things, and how time was a demonic mirage that would always have enough of itself to plan the worst possible karma for you, beginning with the miracle of this two-hundred pounds of organic uselessness to magically remember him and everything that followed.

He was happy that at least he decided to wear clothes today.

Varric was halfway up the stairs to the courtroom when he stopped out of nowhere, as if something in his cerebral cortex malfunctioned and needed a few moments for the system to attempt manual recover. Then all by himself, surrounded by random people in a rush to get inside, he said out loud, "Why is his hair black?!"

"Sta'yt yoh business," Guardsman Nabil said unwelcomingly.

"I am in a rush, Sir Guardsman. I need access to this office immediately," Fenris said with no feelings of guilt whatsoever. It was the truth.

"No access is allowed, sir," Nabil said a little derogatorily at the end, as if he wasn't the right species to be called 'sir'. Pssht, Fenris thought. He could be a 'sir'. If he really wanted, he could be the best Sir in the Free Marches and have everyone tremble at the thought of calling him anything else lesser, but who has time for social rights movements when the woman you may or may not have slept with yesterday might be in shackles and on a boat to the Gallows in an hour?

"I am not the public, Sir Guardsman," Fenris said.

Nabil squinted with his mean little eyes. "And 'oo migh' you be? Oi 'aven't seen the likes of you around 'eya. 'oo do you answer to?"

"To Seneschal Bran," Fenris said.

"Oi see," Nabil said flatly. He consulted with his brain, but it might have been busy with another client. "What fo'?"

"Some important documents have been left here," Fenris said quickly. That was true too, he hoped.

"Oh, oi see, yoh his new lackey, eh? How's that working ou'?" Nabil said conversationally.

"Grand," Fenris said flatly. It was a look that said all you needed to know, from one person working into some sort of public service to another. Nobody needed an elaborate verbal presentation of how it's like to work under somebody who's bossing you around even in small conversation. Then again, Aveline was a woman at least. Some men found that attractive. Some men found it emasculating. And then there were those like Fenris who found, well, let others find what was left of the one, man or woman, who had had the nerve to give him orders.

But again, this was not the time for such things.

"Oi see," Nabil said the third time in the same depressingly simple tone.

Fenris looked suggestively behind him, but Nabil didn't seem clever enough to comprehend the simplest of body language.

"So…" he said.

"Wha'?" Nabil asked flatly.

"Documents?" Fenris said simply, because he thought the optimal course of action is to use simple words, that mean nothing. "I need to get them urgently. The trial is starting very soon."

A candle in Nabil's mind might have caught on fire because of so much excess mental fuel he had never even begun to use, most likely because that required thinking. "Oh, ye', crack on," he said finally and made way. "Slow day today, mate. Me lass kept me up all night, you see," he said with a suggestive laugh, leaning on one side against the wall as Fenris was going in.

Fenris decided that to earn full and friendly ignorance—some call it acceptance— from a group of homogenous mammals you needed to act as if you're one of them and life is the same.

So he virtually spit himself out of character and said, "Aye, mate, no bother. Hope she kept you up in the good way." And cracked on. He heard some weird noise coming from behind, like a very forced baritone voice trying to go through all the octaves in a fraction of a second and achieve the state of soprano. It took Fenris a second to deduce that was one of the ways human males confirmed their sexual victories.

Well, Nabil was a big burley brainless bugger, but at least he had sex last night and remembered it.

Blotting out the sun coming through the window, Fenris brushed over the papers left astray on the Seneschal's desk. Most of them were gravy, really, although he caught sight of a piece of rumpled paper with a trace of a familiar writing style. Before his finger fully touched it, Fenris instinctively looked up.

"Oi mate, there's some trouble downstairs. Go'ta sor' i'out." Fenris tried not to exhale in relief. Nabil's voice dropped into a more appropriate policing tone. "You close the door on yow way out."

"Of course," Fenris said calmly.

As his eyes fell down upon the paper again, Fenris couldn't help but make the inference that if he was being followed by so much luck and convenience all of a sudden, it would only be because the scales of the universe were trudging through the vast amounts of awfulness trying to reach something like balance and it seemed to be really, really desperate.

He opened the rumpled piece of paper and read, or what was supposed to be reading but was mostly a passive observation of muffled odd-looking letters running all around the sheet in a rampant blur:

Roberta stole ∞crowns—bloopf_moraL-TeaSiNg time of day in the 14th Dragon tub—

He wished he were still drunk so he could read better. He read it again:

Rub at least 30 times on the burning area 5 times a day for 14 days and don't rinse.

Well that made less sense than the dragon tub.

Side effects include drowsiness, nausea or increased irritability.

Do NOT drink any type of alcoholic beverage.

Do NOT engage in any sexual activity for the time being. That's what got you the infection in the first place.

Well, that wasn't helpful at all, Fenris thought, except for explaining why Seneschal Bran had a habit of frequently moving his wrists against his crotch in an unnatural way right before clamping his hands together, as well as how Anders suddenly got floor heating.

Pressure ascending and rummaging some more, he found a very neatly written report with the city seal attached to it. It said:

Oblooff—niMe333plop—

Venhedis.

Ornamental nightmares partying—

He slapped himself.

On account of numerous political (there we go, he thought) and religious tension, in an effort to balance the demands of both the people and the Templar Order, I, Viscount Marlowe Dumar of Kirkwall implement with great urgency the official sanction of civilian exemption from Templar conviction and immediately call for prosecution under the city-state's judicial law in the case of Serah A—

"Is somebody in there?"—

Fenris froze. The voice was most definitely that of the pale human Donnic.

Now, well, Nabil was simple, kind of like an apricot, but Donnic wasn't a fool. He was pale and dull and gave no evidence of having a sense of humour, he brought his own tea to work in a neat little blue case— judging from the fact that he was the only guard who never had dirt under his fingernails, it was probably for partly grounded hygienic reasons— and his skin had a tendency to colour like the different stages of expiration in sour cream when he worked too many night shifts. Then there was the fact that he might have gotten himself killed three years ago if the cavalry hadn't arrived in time, but he was definitely not stupid.

In light of these facts, Fenris could have done one of three things: find a place to hide, attack him or tell him the truth. At least two of those guaranteed him a ticket to jail.

"Hello?" The door started to creak.

Fenris shoved the paper in his pants and climbed out the window.

Meanwhile in the courtroom…

Varric was leaning expertly on the wall by the public entrance, mapping the people and surroundings much like a tiger would before going back home to get nagged at by his wife because he wasn't spending enough time with the children.

It was recess, people were moving around all over the place, coming in and coming out, and nobody was giving him importance. It gave Varric back that feeling of invincibility. He moved past the detoxing journalists, fortune tellers, scientists and cutpurses that worked the cogs of his eyes, ears and intellect, and found the quiet cradle of his mind. He listened.

I hope he's dressed all nice and groomed for this, I gave him grandpa's old coat…

… Perhaps we can dine soon and discuss our arrangement further…

… Golly Jasper, could you at least be sober for this!...

… Further compensation is due on the…

…What if they take me away?...

…The problem is she is still a human citizen, therefore why not answer to the institution that administrates exactly that?

Oh?

Because the felony transcends the human forum of actions that Kirkwall as an administration takes care of…

What exactly DID she do that our law doesn't address?

Well, she helped a wanted— wings, wings flapping everywhere, birds cawing and croaking in a rumpus outside.

Fuck this shit, Varric thought.

But let's get back just a minute to Fenris…

It's quite remarkable how many things one could learn while up against the outer wall of the third floor standing on a narrow edge and in Fenris' case praying not to die by irony.

First, the Keep had a very nice inner courtyard.

Second, there were quite a lot of people down there.

Oh… kay…

Fenris breathed. If he could manage to make short jumps from gargoyle to gargoyle everything should run smoothly enough. He looked straight ahead, became one with the wall, shifted his weight, moved his foo— Damn birds! There was a blue shock. They flew up in panic, his other foot slipped, his hand lost its grip on the mortar and the only thing that postponed his transition from elf to salad on the cobbles was a damn pike on the quarter-circle flag his belt got caught into under the gargoyle he fell from.

Oh…kay…

Third, people paid attention to small things while in a crowd— the opening of a door, the moving of feet, the blasphemy of mixing flower patterns with polka dots—more than they did to big things, like a screaming feminist or dead pigeons falling into the street.

These were loud things, which were therefore, public things, which in turn meant they were everyone's problem and therefore not mine.

So, in a way, he should've found relief in the fact that whether he would be seen or not, the people of Kirkwall were not going to address the issue of an unidentified suspicious dark-haired elf hanging arse-up in some flag pikes somewhere atop the Keep that day.

So, in a way, everything was going right?

There was still the issue of getting out of there, there was that, indeed. He inhaled deeply, and tried shifting upwar— there was a loud creak coming from the pike as it bent lower with his weight. All his senses came to a brutal halt. His vision eventually returned in a shaky blur. The ground was still quite a distance away. The wind was still blowing. The sun was still shining, not caring for elven blockages in its trajectory.

Oh… kay. And now I am… stuck?

Below him the courtyard buzzed with people like a knocked hive. Above him, the pigeons joined on the immediately superior pike to attend the funeral of their fallen comrades and, conveniently, his as well. In fact, they seemed to be cheering for it. Yes, it appeared now with quite a lot of evidence that he was stuck and was probably going to die. There are times like these in which "two birds with one stone" and "come down the pike" should not spring to mind.

And then a voice from below said: "What are you doing up there?!"

Thank you, pigeons.

"I'm stuck. Some help could come a long way." It was Hawke, now he realized, so he added, "Preferably not the one I'm looking at right now."

"Are you hanging from a pike?" she shouted urgently. She heard a deep creaking sound.

"Now, Hawke," he woke up saying.

"You halfwit," she said. Panic-stricken, she turned the rails into rock hard armour, ripped one of the curtains, tied a knot into the other and wrapped it around her waist.

No, no, no, no, no. By this point he was flying. There was a loud sound. She couldn't see or hear, she was already over the window, caught his arm. His other hand grabbed onto her like hell and he fixed his feet in the mortar.

Fenris' terrorized eyes were into hers, no breathing.

Her knees ached, the curtain was cutting into her waist, her throat was pumping, her face reddening to death.

She pulled, like hell she pulled.