A/N: This has been rewritten as of early 2020, with new content.

Nyssa uses zie/hir/hirself pronouns. They work similarly to she/her/herself and he/him/himself where grammar rules are concerned. Find out more about Nyssa at lesbianarcana on tumblr.

There was a single road between Markham and Ostwick that cut through the Vimmark Mountains.

Officially it was called, unimaginatively, the Markham-Ostwick Pass (or the Ostwick-Markham Pass, depending on who you asked). Unofficially the Marchers called it the 'Trap'—a narrow road carved through steep, rocky hills where Dalish elves were said to ambush hapless travelers.

If that were true, it would have been dangerous for Fenris to travel the pass alone. Yet he'd left the straggling refugees behind hours ago, reaching a pinch point so narrow he could have stretched his arms out and touched the cliffs on either side. With the last rays of sun in his eyes, it would be a perfect time for opportunistic bandits to swoop down upon him.

And yet, all was silent.

Perhaps they did not care to fight him for what little possessions he had left, Fenris thought, as his footsteps slowed. In the months since heading north he'd discarded the well-worn breastplate and gauntlets for a leather jacket and simple gloves, and he'd let his hair grow until it curled around his ears and he could brush it back from his forehead. If it weren't for the greatsword slung over his back and the lyrium markings on his arms, he could have been mistaken for any other sellsword in the Free Marches.

There were some things he couldn't conceal, and it rankled him to feel like he had to—so he walked about freely in the daylight, and by the third month he knew the Tevinters were hunting him yet again.

It had been almost a year since Danarius died by his hand, but a magister's legacy did not simply cease to be overnight. It unraveled like a torn shirt, each thread fraying and tangling until it compromised the strength of the fabric.

He should have known by now that whatever was left of Danarius's circle of vassals and lapdogs would not simply give up. For a while he had allowed himself to believe that, after all those years in Kirkwall—now that his former master rotted in the ground—perhaps it was, finally, the end.

As a footstep thudded on trampled grass behind him, Fenris drew his sword. He was, after all, experienced enough in disappointment to know better.

"Avanna, slave."

Fenris turned around, slowly, sword at the ready, and noted the shadows outlined against the setting sun. Two crossbowmen above, weapons trained on him. Two soldiers ahead, and just out of sight on the steep rock—a laetan; a mage in service to a magister. It was a contingent of men more suited to taking down a small mercenary band instead of one slave.

Clearly they had been warned about him.

"I am not a slave," Fenris growled—but he didn't move. To attack would be to play right into their hands.

The mage smirked. He was out of place in the middle of the soldiers; his hair and moustache impeccably groomed and his robes without a speck of dirt. The crystal on his staff glowed a blood red.

One of the soldiers stepped forward and raised his shield slowly, almost lazily. Contempt was written in every detail of his expression; Fenris could see it even from several feet away. Beside him the other soldier waited.

Clearly, the slavers wanted him alive. A pity—he didn't care if they lived or died.

Fenris drew his sword as the soldier stepped forward; his blade glanced off the man's shield and met his blade in a ringing clash. The sound echoed along the pass, chasing the soldier's surprised grunt. He fell back, a new respect in his eyes.

Every fight—whether a tavern brawl or a proper battle - it was the same. The Tevinters could not conceive of an elven slave who refused to submit; let alone one who had any skill with a blade.

The soldier took another step forward and made another feint. The man was careless this time, though—Fenris's blade glanced off a shield raised too high and slashed the man across the stomach. The next moment happened in a blur—the soldier was on his knees; Fenris's arm glowed blue as he activated the lyrium. The man's eyes bulged in terror as he thrust his fist forward, then —

Nothing. His fist cracked uselessly against the man's helmet.

It always hurt somewhat to use his abilities, but this was a sharp stab of bruised knuckles, not the tingling ache of the lyrium, and Fenris almost dropped his sword in surprise. Why hadn't it worked?

But he didn't have time to wonder. Their fallen comrade seemed to galvanize the other soldier; he rushed forward with a shouted curse.

This one was careless too, charging recklessly into the pinch point—even so, his blade caught Fenris across the arm as he swung wildly.

"Fucking knife-ear!"

It was risky, Fenris knew, but there was no time and the laetan was still above. He wrenched the man's shield back, then forward. There was a crunch and a howl of pain, but he didn't have time to react, grabbing the man and phasing his fist through his chest. This time it worked, though he almost staggered from the force of it. From somewhere up above the laetan gave a panicked shout.

Fenris pulled back, trying to channel the lyrium again—only to find a wall of solid bone closing around his wrist. Frantically he twisted his hand this way and that; but it wouldn't budge, and the soldier was quite literally dead weight.

Despite knowing there were other soldiers on the cliffs ahead, he still wasn't prepared for the crossbow bolt that struck him.

It slammed into his shoulder just below his collarbone, wrenching his arm back with the force of the projectile, and he barely avoided falling flat on his face with the sudden overbalance.

But even without the lyrium markings, even with a bolt in his shoulder; Fenris was no weakling. Seven years as a mercenary (in Kirkwall, no less) had ensured his combat skills were honed to a fine art. That, and anyone who associated with Hawke inevitably ended up dead or skilled enough to fight a small army to a stand-still.

"Come down and face me!" Fenris yelled into the darkness, with more bravado than he felt. "Or are you a coward?"

A voice responded, or at first he thought they did. There was a mingled reply, then a shout of alarm, followed by a scuffle and an unmistakeable crack.

"Well?!"

A body slammed into the ground before him, missing the sword he'd dropped by a hair. Fenris jerked, prompting an involuntary gasp as the bolt grated on bone.

It was the laetan; he could see it even in the fading light, and he was dead. His neck was broken, eyes staring blankly and mouth open.

Fenris looked up.

There was a figure silhouetted against the twilight sky. He could make out a set of pointed ears and what looked like a knobbled staff, but their face and body was in shadow.

A greenish-yellow light blossomed in the darkness, throwing the stranger's face into sharp relief. He caught a glimpse of dark eyes and a forehead tattooed with intricate lines—a Dalish elf.

Fenris began to twist his hand within the dead man, willing the lyrium to flow through him. His sword was infuriatingly out of reach; he could not cut himself free in time to face whatever elven bandits were hiding in the trees.

But it was not an army of bandits who dropped lightly beside the dead Tevinter, it was the lone Dalish.

"Filth," they muttered, and used the butt of their staff to turn the corpse's head facing up. The mage's head flopped in the dirt like a fish, his head twisted at an odd angle. He would have been dead before he hit the ground.

Fenris began to twist his hand again, and the movement caught the elf's attention. They raised their staff and moved forward, stopping a few feet away from the dead soldiers. The crystal brightened until its light was so painful that he had to turn his head.

"Oh," they said. "I wasn't expecting anyone alive."

"Fortunately, you missed me with the human," Fenris said grimly. "You almost brought him down on top of me."

The elf tucked their staff into the crook of their arm and removed their hood. He didn't recognise their tattoos—as if he had ever paid attention to Dalish markings—and the dim light made it difficult to see their features.

"Sorry about that," they said. "I am not exactly inclined to be gentle to these demons."

Fenris began to reach for his sword, making no effort at subtlety.

"They were no demons," he said, when he'd pulled his sword towards him. "Just slavers."

"It was a figure of speech."

The elf watched him quietly while he attempted to angle the sword. Clumsy, but if he could not free himself without cutting the corpse's flesh—or his own—so be it.

"Are you alright?" they asked finally, when several seconds had gone past.

Fenris grimaced. "Yes."

"I ask because your hand is stuck in a corpse. Most people usually just check their pockets."

"I am no thief."

"Oh, I hope you don't think I'm judging," the elf said. They laid down their staff and dropped to their knees. "We all do what we need to get by."

"Get away from me," Fenris growled.

"Strong words for a man wearing a dead shemlen." They glanced down at his trapped hand—then around, as if expecting more soldiers to suddenly run out of the darkness. "Let me help you, lethallen. This place is too dangerous to linger. And besides...you don't want your hand anywhere near a corpse while it rots. Trust me."

It seemed there was little choice but to acquiesce. Fenris nodded brusquely and put down his sword, letting the elf closer.

"How did you do this?" they muttered half to themself, as they bent to inspect his arm. "I've never seen anyone who could punch through this many layers. Not without magic, at least."

"It's a talent," Fenris said absently.

In the years since he'd been given his markings he had gotten used to the feeling of his hand passing through a person's body—as odd as that was to consider—but his abilities had never before failed him, and now he had the chance to observe what it looked like. His arm had plunged into the soldier's chest; through cheap, silver-painted plate, padded fabric, flesh and bone, and the resulting lyrium discharge had cauterised the edge of the metal in a molten ring around his wrist. He could still feel his hand, but it squished uncomfortably, and his glove was soaked in Maker-knew-what.

"I'm Nyssa, by the way," the elf said, as they touched the melted metal.

Silence. They looked up expectedly, eyebrows raised.

"Fenris," Fenris said, somewhat reluctantly; it seemed churlish even for him to refuse to give his name after they'd saved his life.

"Aneth ara," Nyssa said.

They stopped talking after that, though he caught a few muttered curses in elven as they struggled to bend back the dented and melted chest plate. When they saw the ragged fabric and pale, blistered skin entrapping his wrist, they clicked their tongue.

"What?"

"I just…" they stopped, biting their lip, then gestured to the melted armour. "I may not be able to free you with my strength alone. You're not afraid of magic, are you?"

"No."

"But by the look you're giving me, you're not fond of it," they said. "Alright."

Nyssa sat back on their haunches, frowning pensively. Then they reached for the bag slung over their hip and retrieved from it a roll of soft leather tied with string, laying it out in front of them.

Fenris caught a glimpse of several wicked looking tools glinting in the light, and his heart thumped loudly. "What are you doing?"

The alarm must have shown on his face, for Nyssa laughed softly. "Don't look so nervous. I'm not going to remove your hand. Just —" they held up a long, thin device with two curved hooks. "You'll want to stay still. Trust me."

Fenris was a mercenary by trade; he knew nothing about the process of death beyond killing for coin, and he spent little time considering where the spirit ended up after fleeing the living world. Thus, he believed Nyssa when zie (for that was the pronoun the other elf used, and Fenris had to roll it on his tongue first) said it was a good thing zie had arrived so soon after the attack. Corpses stiffen and expand as they rot, and that would have made the task of freeing him harder.

Even so it took close to an hour, and by the time Nyssa freed his hand, darkness had fallen and his shoulder was throbbing painfully. Fenris endured it without complaint. He was used to pain.

"There," zie said, and carefully Fenris withdrew his hand. His fingers tingled when he flexed the joints, but it lacked the sharp pain or throbbing expected of broken bones.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." Nyssa put down the bloodied tools and leaned forward. "Now, let me see that shoulder of yours."

Fenris shook his head. It wasn't far to Ostwick; he could stand the discomfort until he saw a physician.

"Don't be foolish," the other elf said, hir voice sharp with anxiety. "You're obviously in pain, and if you leave it too long you'll lose the use of your arm. And where will you be then, hm?"

Fenris scowled, but let hir inspect the wound. The slaver had shot him directly under his collarbone, burying the bolt in his shoulder joint. He could barely move his arm.

"One moment of pain," Nyssa murmured, and jerked the bolt out. He saw hir eyebrows raise at his lack of reaction, but zie said nothing. Far more uncomfortable was the feeling of magic spreading through his wound, knitting the punctured flesh and torn muscle.

Together they dragged the corpses out of the pinch point and burned them on a makeshift pyre of fallen pine branches. Fenris had wanted to leave them to rot—it was what they deserved—but Nyssa refused. To leave them would be to attract scavengers and predators, zie said, and risk the lives of innocent travelers. So the Tevinters burned, and as the smoke began to reach past the trees, zie urged him off the main road into the forest.

A mage is fire made flesh and a demon asleep. It was an old proverb he'd heard somewhere; one that rang with truth. He had witnessed in the flesh the destruction of which magic was capable. He'd seen mages who wreaked havoc across Thedas with their lust for power; mages who killed and enslaved those weaker than them; mages who destroyed everything around them in their restless need to further their own causes. Mages who took what they wanted for their own self-indulgent desires.

"Did you find that on the slaver?"

Fenris blinked, thrown back to reality, and looked down at the piece of paper crumpled in his fist.

"Yes," he said, and because Nyssa was looking at him expectantly, he read it out loud.

Octus —

The ship docks at Ostwick. There will be sedatives for the slave, and you will ensure he is taken to Minrathous with all haste. He will require some memory removal….

"You're a slave?"

"Was a slave," Fenris said. "Many years ago."

"I see."

The road petered out to nothing more than a barely visible dirt track. The trees on either side of the road pressed in as they walked, looming large enough to block out whatever moonlight shone from above.

If he had been more cautious and less fatigued, perhaps he would have stopped to wonder what he was doing. Following a stranger into pitch-black forest was a foolish idea even for him. And he should not trust this mage.

"Thank you for your help," he said, when Nyssa turned away. "I don't wish to delay you from your journey."

Zie shrugged. "I have no deadline to speak of. I was on my way to Ostwick, but a detour won't affect my plans overly."

"To Ostwick?"

"Yes, to take ship back to Val Royeaux. Ah, here we are."

Fenris ducked under the curtain of ivy Nyssa held back for him, then straightened up.

Hidden beyond the ivy was a small clearing amongst the trees. There was barely any light to see by, but he could make out the faint silhouette of a ramshackle hut; a rough thing of wood and moss, overgrown with weeds.

"Do you ...live here?" he asked, as Nyssa appeared behind him.

Zie let out a startled laugh, then shot him an apologetic look. "Sorry. I, uh, spend so much time by myself that I forget to explain anything."

Nyssa brushed past him and walked to the fire pit. A flame sprang to life among the coals as zie waved hir hand.

"I found this place yesterday while on my way out of Markham," zie said, as zie pulled a linen-wrapped bundle from hir pack. "It's abandoned. Warm enough, if a little dusty. If you're going to stay, you might prefer a roof over your head."

"You assume much," Fenris said, a little dryly.

There was meat of some kind in the bundle and herbs with a sharp, tangy scent. Nyssa pulled a waterskin from hir pack and poured some water over hir hands, scrubbing vigorously until the dead men's blood began to wash away. Then zie emptied the rest into the iron pot hanging over the fire and began to pull apart the bundle of herbs.

Fenris lowered the sword and inched closer. The fire had doubled in size and its heat washed over him, banishing the chill of the night. He blinked at Nyssa, who returned his gaze with a smile.

"You can go, if you want," zie said, "but you look like someone who just had his hand cut from a corpse, and I thought you probably could use a decent meal."

Despite his caution, Fenris smiled.

"Both are true," he admitted, and Nyssa motioned for him to sit. "You don't...wish me to do anything?"

Zie tilted hir head and regarded him.

"Yes," zie replied, and smiled again. "You could tell me about those markings of yours."

Nyssa said hir meal would not be excellent, but Fenris found no cause to complain. The meat zie roasted over the fire, collecting the drippings into the pot with the herbs and water to make a broth. It was a welcome change after days of overboiled tavern fare.

While he ate, he talked.

He had not told anyone about the origins of his markings in years. Hawke knew, and some of their mutual friends had put together bits and pieces from overheard (reluctant) conversations with Merrill and Isabela. Some, like Anders, had used it to suggest he was like a wild dog than a man. Others had never asked.

"So, let me see if I understand," Nyssa said, after he had fallen silent. "This Danarius—your master—he branded these lyrium markings into your flesh."

"Apparently I was a volunteer," he said grimly, and hir expression darkened. "As if a slave ever has the freedom to choose."

"And the lyrium gave you unusual abilities. Do you mean...magic?"

Fenris scowled. "I am no mage. Nor do I wish to be."

"I'll try not to take that personally," Nyssa said dryly, "but I hope he paid for that with his life."

He could have slipped away then, when zie gathered the empty bowls and pot and disappeared into the darkness. A part of him wanted to; speaking of Danarius always left a bad taste in his mouth, and he was afraid sometimes his discomfort showed. But when the other elf returned with a clean pot and full waterskin, he remained seated.
"Danarius is no more," he said, when zie sat down again. "It seems his vassals might still hope to reclaim his property. So far they have failed."

"And when your hand was trapped in the Tevinter's chest? Does that...happen often?"

"No."

"Oh."

For a long moment Nyssa stared into the fire, biting hir lip thoughtfully. Then zie nodded and stood. As Fenris watched, zie closed hir eyes and extended hir hands. A tingle of something brushed across his skin, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

"What are you doing?" he asked, sharper than he'd intended.

If Nyssa was alarmed by his tone zie gave no sign. "Casting protection wards. Do you know much of our people's language?"

"No," Fenris replied truthfully. He'd had little to do with Dalish back in Kirkwall, unless you counted his conversations with Merrill to be of importance—and he didn't. The Dalish were as foreign to him as the vagrants who squatted in the filthy city alienages. "Though I recognise your tattoos as Dalish. I had dealings with a clan on Sundermount once."

At this Nyssa paused, casting him a glance over hir shoulder.

"Sundermount is a very old, very cursed place," zie said with a frown. "I assume that didn't end well."

That was an understatement, Fenris thought, but he only jerked his head in assent.

"But yes—my tattoos are vallaslin, blood-writing. We receive them upon adulthood. It forever marks me as one of the Dalish..but that was my choice."

Zie stepped back, seemingly satisfied with hir work, and came back to the fire. Hir eyes reflected the flickering fire light as zie sat back down.

"I may be able to help you with your markings," zie said quietly. "If you'll let me. Will you stay, if only for a day or two?"

This will not end well, Fenris thought, but he had trouble convincing himself it was true.

"I will stay," he said.