AN: Hi everyone! Thanks sooo much for reading! The follows, favorites, and reviews make me smile!

As MirandaBasilisk asked in a review of the last chapter, Anders definitely has a crush on our lovely rogue Hawke. But, as you'll see in this chapter, she only has eyes for a certain broody elf. At least she did, until he messed it up! But, I'm getting ahead of myself. Their relationship so far is kind of summed up in this chapter, while later chapters will likely have actual flashbacks. I always imagined it as more of a slow build instead of just "Hey Fenris you're upset let's have sex lol" kind of thing.

And - I go a bit off-canonhere - in this story, Fenris never actually found Hadriana. So, he didn't kill her, and he didn't learn about his sister.

And, I thought about giving the messenger boy a name, but really he's not a super important character and it would mean editing earlier chapters to include the name. So, he's just constantly referred to as 'the boy' and 'the messenger'. Let me know if that comes off too awkward and I should give him a name.

Thanks, hope you enjoy!

Fenris paced in the bedroom, still wearing his armor, kicking various debris out of his way. He had a wine bottle in hand, swigging from it occasionally. Yesterday he had journeyed with Hawke, Merrill, and Varric to the Wounded Coast to clear out some bandits for Aveline. Upon their return he had found himself unable to sleep at all, beset by memories and emotions. He couldn't get them out of his head, so he turned to alcohol in the hopes it would dull everything. He could have gone to the Hanged Man, he supposed, but he hadn't wanted to risk running into Hawke.

It had been well over a year since that night, yet it still haunted him. First, Hadriana had escaped his vengeful grasp. He had stormed off, disappearing for several days. The night he finally returned he had gone to speak with Hawke at her mansion. Then, the next morning he had left her. She had helped him, accepted him, loved him. And he had panicked over resurfacing memories and a fear of what truly being with someone could mean. He was a coward.

Fenris's grip tightened on the bottle, the claws of his gauntlet scraping against the glass. With a roar he hurled the bottle against the door, the loud crash doing little to help his mood. He toppled one of the chairs by the fireplace, shoving it away with a push of his foot.

Why had the memories chosen to resurface then, in the moments he was happy for once? He could only recall flashes of them now, those damned memories from before the lyrium was branded into his skin. He already had the memories from the branding forward simmering in his gut – those years he was a slave and bodyguard to the twisted magister Denarius, how he had turned on the Fog Warriors at a word from his master. And now the memory of Marra's expression as he walked out on her.

He had gone through this argument so many times since then. He hated himself for walking out on Hawke. But she deserved so much more than he could offer. He was a broken former slave, filled with spite and a drive for revenge, constantly hunted. He should have put a stop to the flirting early on, before it could have progressed as it did to the small touches, kisses, and finally that night together. Venhedis, he should have just left Kirkwall long ago. If not to run from his hunters and his mistakes, then to protect Hawke. Or, perhaps, to run from Hawke and what he could not have with her.

Yet he could not bring himself to leave. He was tied here, tied to Hawke, as the red kerchief was tied to his wrist.

Fenris sat heavily in the one chair still standing. The fireplace crackled and threw flickering shadows about as he fiddled with the kerchief. Hawke had given it to him, that night they had spent together. A gift from her parents, she had carried the small square of fabric with her from Ferelden. He had tried to refuse such a sentimental token, but she had insisted. She wanted him to have something to show him how much she cared for him. And Fenris thought he understood what she had been trying to say with the token when words had failed her. Neither of them were eloquent with matters of the heart. But, looking into her eyes that night, Fenris could see it, see how much he mattered to her. And he knew his eyes had reflected that same look.

Fenris pulled at the fabric, finding one of the corners tucked under the knot. He ran a finger over the initials there, MH embroidered in white thread. He shouldn't wear it anymore, not after hurting her. But she had asked him to wear it. To remind him that he had friends – even if he wanted nothing more than friendship from Hawke. Kaffas, the look in her eyes when she said that. Like she was trying to do the best thing for him, even though it hurt her to do it. Like she was trying to apologize and fix things, even though it was his fault. Venhedis. That was just how Hawke was, always taking every problem on her shoulders and making it her responsibility to solve it.

And he had only added to her burden.

With a frustrated noise he slammed his fist on the arm of the chair. That night he had been so messed up, off center, embroiled in emotions after failing to find Hadriana and kill her. The entire mission had set him on edge from the very beginning, rage, hate, and anticipation narrowing his focus to one thing – find and kill. And under all that, the tiniest hope that he was closer to revenge and true freedom from his former life.

The group of hunters on the Wounded Coast should not have been so unexpected. He had allowed himself too much complacency. He knew Denarius would never give up. Yet still he had been caught off guard by this newest attempt. But Hawke had stepped up next to him. The vehemence with which she defended him and his freedom almost made him smile.

The battle went fairly quickly. A hard shove of his face into the dirt, and the sight of his dead fellows, had quickly drawn information from the last slaver left alive. Fenris was not truly surprised when he confessed it was Hadriana who had led them there to recapture him. He had expected Denarius himself. The self-righteous mage would pay for thinking Fenris below his own attention and sending an apprentice after him. And Hadriana herself, a despicable woman in her own right – Fenris would be more than happy to kill her.

Without a second thought Fenris had broken the man's neck. He had turned to Hawke and the others. Spattered in slaver blood, Hawke had smiled grimly. Let's go get her, she had said, briefly gripping his hand. Fenris had smiled back, danger glinting in his eyes.

But, on the way to the slaver caverns where Hadriana hid, anxiety had bloomed in his chest. Denarius's apprentice was a powerful mage in her own right. He had yet to face someone as strong as a Tevinter apprentice amongst those sent against him. And this was Hadriana, the person second only to Denarius among those who had made his life torture. Unless Denarius had instructed otherwise, Fenris had been forced to follow orders and receive punishments from her.

Yet it wasn't truly Hadriana, nor the expectation of fighting her, that caused the nervousness spiking through his veins. It was himself he feared. Upon seeing this mage, so closely associated with his old master and his time as slave – would his resolve crumble? Would the slave attitude that had been instilled in him reemerge in full force? Would he freeze, unable to lift his sword against her, and fall on his knees in surrender? Or worse, turn on his friends as he had the Fog Warriors?

At the entrance to the caverns he had paused, these questions screeching in his head. Hawke had brushed a hand against his arm. He looked at her, saw the mix of concern and determination in her expression. Ready? That was all she asked. And, feeling the weight of her gloved hand on his armored arm, he was. In that moment, he knew that if he had said no, Hawke would have pushed on ahead in his place. She would have faced Hadriana on her own. For him. The questions, fears, and anxiety still raged within him as they entered the caverns, but they had quieted enough for him to move forward.

They fought through the caverns. Never had Denarius sent so many after him at once. He must be losing his patience with his runaway property. With each step, each swing of his broadsword, Fenris's mind balanced precariously on the edge of a blade. Fight, or fall.

The tension emitting from Fenris was obvious when they found the elven girl, surrounded by slaves sacrificed to fuel Hadriana's blood magic. It struck him like a blow, hearing the girl say her mistress had killed these people because he was coming to kill her. These people were dead because he refused to submit. It disturbed him, also, hearing the girl speak and knowing that he had once seen the world in similar colors – all that mattered was keeping the master or mistress happy, just so you could survive another day.

Hawke had sheathed her daggers and held out a hand to the girl, Orana. The girl had flinched away, expecting to be struck. Hawke's frown had deepened and she dropped her hand back to her side. She had glanced at Fenris, then back to the girl. She smiled gently. Orana, Hawke said, using the soft voice she used with children. You can come work for me, alright?

Fenris reeled from her suggestion. His mind already in turmoil, he had grabbed Hawke's wrist, hard. A slave for you, Mistress Hawke? he had hissed in accusation.

Hawke had baulked at him. How can you say that? I'm going to pay her, Fenris. She pointed at the elven girl. She's free, yes, and she can chose to accept or not. But do you really think she can survive her freedom longer than a day, in this condition?

Fenris had loosened his grip on her wrist. He was shocked at himself, accusing Hawke of such a thing when she had seen to it that every slaver they ran into was killed. You're… helping her, he had said, stupidly. She was right of course. This girl would not know how to function without someone ordering her about, and Kirkwall was not kind to the vulnerable. So of course, Hawke would step in to help – that was her nature.

Hawke jerked her hand from his grasp, looking at him with disgust before turning her attention back to Orana. Gently she gave the girl instructions on finding Kirkwall and her manor in Hightown. As the girl ran off, Fenris said Hawke's name, wanting to apologize.

Hawke cut him off, waving a hand dismissively. You're stressed, you didn't mean it, she had huffed, not looking at him as she stalked further into the cave. She paused mid step, then turned and approached Fenris. She placed a hand against his chest, fingers splayed. She met his gaze for a moment before speaking. We're going to get them, Fenris. We're going to kill them, and you're going to enjoy your freedom. She had sounded so confident. Fenris had placed his hand over hers and nodded, not knowing what to say. She had given a curt nod back, then pulled away and led them further into the caverns.

But it had been for nothing. They faced numerous slavers, hired muscle, and scores of demons. They had scoured the caves, exhausted and covered in blood. But they were too late. Hadriana had escaped, likely by a ship directed through the natural canals within the cave system, the same water ways slavers had used hundreds of years before. Varric had made quiet inquiries, and confirmed that the apprentice had indeed made it back to Minrathous, far out of Fenris's reach.

Fenris growled in frustration, kicking at a log next the fireplace. Perhaps if they had succeeded in finding and killing Hadriana he would have found some small sense of peace. Perhaps then he would not have walked away from Hawke in the early hours of morning several days later.

Perhaps if Fenris finally succeeded in killing Denarius he could finally move on from this poisonous hate and be worthy of Hawke's love, be capable of loving her completely.

Fenris's eyes drifted closed, an alcohol-fueled haze falling over his mind as he relaxed back into the chair. Marra… He thought of Hawke, of their night together. But the sweet memory was tainted by dark ones – those that had flashed through his head as he slept next to Marra. Those damned, nightmarish memories of his life of slavery that had driven panic into his heart like a stake. Even though he could remember little detail now, he still tasted the bitterness and horror the memories had caused.

He drifted through a fitful sleep, half-slumped in the chair. Good and bad memories, shadows of dread and pain, twisted in his mind.

He was unsure how long had passed when a distant sound pulled him back to the waking world. It must not have been too long, though, as he swayed a bit upon jumping up from his chair. He snatched up his broadsword from its spot leaning against the wall and headed for the door, cursing himself for drinking so much. If someone attacked, if Denarius came for him while he was half-drunk and he was taken down because of it –

"Kaffas," he hissed as he stepped, shards of glass cutting into his foot. Blood mixed with the spilled wine. Another careless move – and why had he thrown the bottle against the door, right where he would have to walk later? Why didn't he get proper boots like the others were always telling him? Stupid –

Fenris cut off berating himself as he listened at the bedroom door, trying to see any signs of movement through the small opening. The stairs leading up to the landing where his room was located creaked loudly. He hadn't heard the front door open – he had purposely allowed the hinges to rust so it would also creak loudly if someone opened it. The door was locked anyway, so this intruder must have entered some other way.

"Um, hello?" called an unsure voice. The voice sounded young, but Fenris remained on guard. He had already made too many mistakes in the past few minutes.

The stairs creaked again. Fenris pulled open the door and rushed onto the landing with a growl, holding his sword ready. At the top of the stairs to the left of the landing stood a boy around 12, Fenris guessed. He swung his gaze around quickly, looking for more threatening enemies.

"Um, Messere Fenris? Right? The Champion's friend?" asked the boy, who had frozen in place and was staring at him with wide eyes. "Maker's balls, yer a scary fellow! That's a big sword there!" the boy exclaimed, evidently more curious than afraid.

Fenris eyes snapped back to the boy. "Why are you here? How did you get in?" he demanded. The boy was short with dirty blonde hair, thin like all urchins from Darktown, and wearing ill-fitting clothes. Had someone employed the boy as a distraction? What did this have to do with Hawke?

"The Champion, mister. She wanted me to give ya a message, see?" He pulled a folded paper from his pocket. "I wasn't sure this was the right place, looks abandoned an' all. But she said it would, so I knocked. Ya didn't answer, so I climbed in a window," the boy rambled, hooking a thumb to point toward the hallway leading into the other rooms downstairs.

"You were so determined to deliver a message that you broke in?" Fenris asked, suspicious, as he took a step toward the boy.

The boy looked defensive. "I didn't really break in, mister. The window was already busted out, I swear it was. And she's payin' me good coin ta get the messages delivered before dawn. And, gettin' on the Champion's bad side seems like a bad idea," the boy said with a shrug. He held out the folded paper again.

Fenris relaxed slightly, lowering the sword as he stepped forward to take the message. He was still on edge, he guessed, from his earlier dwelling on memories and fears. He glanced at the boy again, then leaned the broadsword against the wall. A small worry popped up as he unfolded the single piece of parchment. Hawke had been teaching him to read for quite some time now, but what if the message contained words he didn't know? The worry disappeared though as he saw the brief message written in Hawke's sharp handwriting.

Bethany is missing. I need help. Meet at the Hanged Man now.

Hawke

Fenris, even tipsy and with his low-level reading skills, read the short message quickly. Hawke's sister, missing. How could that be, when the mage was in the Gallows? He hadn't known the girl very long before she was taken by the templars, but she seemed kind enough, for a mage. And Hawke absolutely loved her. Who would take her, and why? To get to Hawke? Or could it be some plot by the templars, like the abomination Anders was always going on about? Feh, that mage was insane.

"Uh, yer foot's bleedin' a lot, mister," the boy said, pointing at the growing puddle of blood under Fenris's foot.

Fenris glanced down. Kaffas, there was still glass in his foot, too. Fool. The note wrinkled in his tightening grasp. "Did Hawke say anything else?" he asked. Surely Hawke must have some idea what was going on.

The messenger shrugged. "I guess it's fine since yer her friend. She had me deliver two other messages here in Hightown. An' she didn't seem to like whatever was in the message I brought her first. Oh, an' there's some templars watchin' her house," the boy explained. His face creased as he thought for a moment. "An' she said some pretty serious goodbyes to her people, she did. Like she might die or somethin'. But she's the Champion, so that won't happen, right? I mean, she killed that big Qunari all by herself and all."

Fenris processed this information. So templars were involved somehow. Was it a ransom note she had received? And Hawke always put on a face for strangers, so it did not bode well that she was so obviously concerned that this boy picked up on it.

"Right. You can leave now," Fenris said distractedly. He waved one hand toward the front of the mansion. "Use the door," he added over his shoulder as he hobbled back into his bedroom, careful to avoid the glass shards this time. He heard the stairs creak as he opened the chest he kept bandages and such in. The front door creaked and slammed as he gathered his supplies and sat on the edge of his bed.

He needed to hurry – Hawke needed him. He was not foolish enough to think she needed just him, of course, especially with something so dire. The boy had mentioned other messages, likely meant for others in their group. Hm, their group. He was honored to still be counted among Hawke's little band, even after he had proven himself less than trustworthy to her, at least in certain matters.

With a cringe Fenris pulled the jagged shards from the ball of his foot. Damned things had cut deep and blood pumped from the wounds as he tossed each shard across the room. Again cursing his foolishness, he stopped the bleeding, cleaned the cuts, and dabbed elfroot potion directly to them. With a hiss and stab of fiery pain the skin knit closed. It would be best to stay off that foot while it healed, but there was no time for that. He bandaged it and stood, testing his weight. It still hurt, but compared to the variety of other wounds he had received it was nothing but a minor annoyance. He tossed a pitcher of water on the fire to extinguish it, then made it around the glass shards again to get back to the landing. Heh, maybe the broken glass would be useful. He would certainly wake up if someone stepped on it and howled in pain.

Fenris grabbed his sword where he had leaned it against the wall and swung it into place on his back. He slipped out of the decrepit mansion, noting from the sky there were less than two hours before dawn. He glanced at the red kerchief on his wrist, then headed for Lowtown.