TW: Brief mentions of SA as well as domestic violence

In spite of all he'd witnessed, Donnic wanted to be a mage. He wanted to be a mage so he could teleport far away from this place.

A pain moved through Fenris as he watched Hawke leave. The muscles in his neck tightened, and he took a step forward—

Aveline put herself in his way, staring him in the eye. "Do not follow her." She gave Donnic one of their telepathic looks, and went after Hawke.

Fenris paced backwards and forwards.

"Dude… what happened?" Donnic said softly, trying to hide his disturbance.

"What do you mean, what happened?" Fenris hissed. "She does blood magic and has the nerve to lecture me!"

Fenris may not have suffered from "escaped slave syndrome", but he suffered from an escaped slave syndrome.

"Man… you did blood magic."

"Do I look like a fucking mage to you?" Fenris growled lowly, invading Donnic's personal space.

"No. You look like a guy with magic on his skin," Donnic said, not breaking eye contact. "I don't know what the difference is, but Hawke called on you many times to break the tether because you were using up all her magic. She was standing right there," he said, pointing to the wall connecting to the corridor, "and you were just there," he said, pointing to the door a few yards away. Fenris's eyes did not move from him once. "Was it worth it?"

There it was, on his face. It was like something snapped in him—a nerve, a thought, a sadness. Fenris looked at Hadriana's body; he closed his eyes and wrinkled his nose.

It wasn't.

"And then you—" Donnic said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He couldn't help it. He may not have had any significant affection for Hawke, but it wasn't that simple. Aveline cared for her—a lot. She'd once said she was part of her chosen family. Donnic was merely once removed from Hawke in that constellation; he felt a duty towards it. The moral implications also helped him not take his side even if a sword was held to his neck. "How could you say those things? How could you call out for the death of an entire people, including those you love?"

As he said this, Fenris covered his face quickly and snapped at him. "I am in pain!" he growled, his bangs flying everywhere.

Something stirred inside Donnic, because he had seen this all too many times. From beggars to businessmen to battered wives and children all over the city—everyone was in pain because someone important in their lives had hurt them; sometimes their entire family; sometimes the whole world.

Whether it was a cutting word, an angry blow or an act of self-harm, every sudden violence was fuelled by a force of pain that didn't know how to sit quietly inside a body. And when people were overwhelmed with pain, they lost every ounce of compassion for another living being.

His father had taught him that with his fists; hands that young Donnic desperately wanted to embrace him instead of beat him. His mother had taught him there were people who could get used to pain so well it became their love language.

One day when he was eleven, his father was complaining about women and had a heart attack in the kitchen. As he'd held him, Donnic had realised that was the first time in his life that he felt able to actually touch his father. He was holding hard to him with his love and his grief; grief that his father was dying, but also grief in knowing that his death would make him happy. He'd never spoken of it to his mother, but he'd always known she felt the same.

The tragedy took its full form when he grew up and realised the pain his father put inside him never truly left; no amount of catching bad guys made up for the fact he had failed to protect his own mother. He'd enjoyed the freedom as a young guardsman to enact his vengeance—certainly; but it had always left a bad taste in his mouth.

For a time… he'd become one of them.

"I know…" Donnic whispered, nodding with a languid blink. "Believe me, I do. Your pain is real. It's there, inside you. You didn't deserve it, Fenris, and I'm terribly sorry."

The elf looked away. He didn't want to hear it.

"It's easy to turn to hate, because you don't know what to do with all the pain," Donnic said, coming in closer. He inhaled his urge to touch him and sighed. "But you can't take it out on others. You can't seek justice for the pain a monster put inside you by becoming one yourself."

Fenris stood stiff and severe, silently fuming. Ten or so seconds passed without change.

This was a man coming to terms with a new reality—one where he was wrong. It wasn't easy. He was looking for one, but there simply weren't any good arguments for being an asshole.

"I… need to go," Fenris said, rubbing his forehead.

Donnic looked up, calculating. "Let's give it five more minutes. Hawke may have stopped to talk to the girl."

Fenris was very motivated, but the next door just wasn't going to open. "Venhedis!" he cursed.

"It'll be okay, buddy," Donnic said, though he wasn't sincere. This was guardsman talk.

Fenris's hysterical laughter bounced off the walls as his eyes fashioned into ruin.

"Alright. It may not all be okay, but you have a choice not to make this worse for yourself."

Fenris laughed coldly. "The right choice is not to my benefit." He became sad. "I have to leave Kirkwall."

"Why?" Donnic said, raising an eyebrow.

"Because I am a fucking piece of shit!" Fenris's growl echoed in a symphony of self-critique. His hands went to cover his face.

"Okay, that's not the right choice," Donnic said in the ghostly silence that followed. "That's the easy choice."

"No, it is the hardest choice I will ever make," Fenris insisted, invading his personal space again.

Donnic gave a deep sigh. "You don't get to decide for people what they feel about the situation, or whether they still want to associate with you. That's their choice to make. You're taking that away from them if you run away," he said, crossing his arms. "That's the easy choice." He looked at Hadriana's body. "You said it yourself—people find all sorts of justifications to take the easy way out."

Fenris bowed his head. He started tapping the pillowy sides of his hands. His breaths came deep and rattled, in and out.

Before they left, Fenris went to Fiona's corpse, and brooded for a while.

Donnic pretended this was normal, and perused an interesting wall. He couldn't wait to go home.

Fenris put his hands together. "Ashes we were, and ashes we become," he prayed. "Maker, please give this woman a place at your side. Let her find peace in your embrace."

He sat there, staring at her.

"What did you do?" Donnic whispered.

Fenris didn't speak for a while. "I… intimidated her…" he said, his eyes going through the memory. He was not enjoying himself. "I thought she'd been following me. But she knew nothing and fell apart." He paused, looking away. "I didn't care at all what would happen to her."

"So, you were being followed, just not by her," Donnic said, thinking. "But why would the magisters have even picked her up—"

Fenris looked at the other corpses with reddened eyes, his mouth open and beaten. He shrugged. "Because it's handy to have an extra blood bag…"

Donnic breathed in, a gnawing cringe in his throat.

"Yet she had survived all this time," Fenris said, taking out the cherry tree necklace. Worry lines creased his forehead, but it was more than worry—it was guilt. "And was allowed personal effects."

"So, the magister had a soft spot for her?" Not soft enough, he thought. After all, Orana had made it out alive, not Fiona.

"A soft spot…" Fenris said, looking up through him rather than at him, "… often comes at a terrible price."

The dark echo squeezed the air out of the room.

"What do you mean?" Donnic said. His stomach had figured it out before he did. "Oh…" He made a mental note to mention this to Aveline, as the girl probably needed signposting to the support group. Scratch that—she needed support any and either way.

"I did this to her," Fenris said, his eyes becoming glassier by the second. "I…" He sobbed, his voice resigned and weak, and his eyes moved towards the cave entrance. Hawke was long gone. "I did this to her."

Donnic went to him, and put a hand on his shoulder. "You couldn't have known."

"I knew better," Fenris said, standing up as he wiped his face. He breathed in roughly. "I just didn't care."

"Because Fiona was a mage?"

The elf's eyes fell. He nodded softly.

Donnic felt bad for him. Those magisters formed a callous heart, and he was heir to it.

But in this world, people had the right to decline their inheritance.

"Let's go, buddy," Donnic said sincerely, walking him away from it all. "You will do better in the morning."

Evening, The Hawke Estate

Aveline confiscated every drop of alcohol in that house. In that big, silent, empty house.

It was truly the worst time not to have her mother there. Fuck Orlais. Fuck, fuck, FUCK ORLAIS!

Aveline had kept her company, and had held her as she cried. She had listened to her as she yelled and threw things and waded through the entire list of reasons why Fenris was bad for her—that he was dangerous, he was fucked up, he was dishonourable, he was self-involved, he talked the talk but tripped in his walk; how many more trips could she afford before she ended up in the Circle, or insane, or dead?

And after all of it, Aveline's nod came painful, soft. After all of it, Hawke realised she'd been waiting for Aveline to rise from the edge of the bed and tell her how this was all a setback and emotions were high and she would see differently in the morning. But she didn't. And she hated the truth.

Her mind raced through all the possibilities, while her mouth watered for that sweet oblivion.

Finally, Hawke cracked and asked Aveline to stay over. She wasn't terribly happy, but she agreed it was for the best and went to take a bath.

After numerous failed attempts to find booze, Hawke tried to paint something that made her spark. Her top three were flowers, dogs and children. That night, she needed a military dose of spark, so she made a puppy biting on a flower crown as he realised it tasted like crap. But now and then her eye would linger on the painting of her and Fenris on the nightstand; every subsequent attempt ended in a vile malunion of brush strokes. The puppy looked more like a wolf cub; it had a hole for a heart, but fangs he had plenty…

Her chest felt like a cushion with a thousand nasty needles inside it.

She'd known. She'd known this love would tear her to pieces, yet she did it anyway.

She broke down and threw the canvas in the fire. She sat on the floor against the bed, staring at the flames with tears in her eyes.

In this world, pain had no colour. Yet how deeply her heart was stained by him.

Evening, Fenris's Mansion

Fenris couldn't stand being in that house, in that room—staring at the life he had built only to tear it all down like a child would a dollhouse.

Never mind writing; his hand couldn't even hold the quill steady.

He looked in the mirror and hated everything he saw. A monster. A monster that followed him everywhere, filled with hate. It was all he could think about—anger, rage, FURY. Fury at the magisters! Fury at the world! Fury in his bones.

The furies are at home in the mirror, the hanged man said.

He knew—he knew someone had told him that. A woman? Yes. A woman who knew a thing or two about anger. A woman who'd taken her anger and made something out of it, instead of forever living with her neck under its boot. A woman he could almost see in that mirror, flowing in and out of sight. She was disappointed in him.

So, he punched it.

Seeing the pathetic distorted mess in the broken mirror, he felt better, even as he cried. He made more sense now. It all made sense now.

He wasn't truly there. Not in that house, not even in Kirkwall. He wasn't anywhere…

Nowhere but in his head, in the deep, in a room which he had never truly left—his old, tiny, windowless room, where he lay broken and beaten, staring at that painting of the crying child…

Evening, The Hawke Estate

"Why are there tears again?" Aveline said in a worry, coming in her room in a guest bathrobe.

"He made me do blood magic, Aveline," Hawke said, her head coming up from her crossed arms as she sat against the edge of the bed. "He made me do blood magic, then he told me to rot," she said, breaking into tears again.

Aveline sat down next to her, adjusting the towel on her head. Then she extended her arm towards her and looked into the fire.

"I know," she said grimly. She looked down for a while. "Maybe he's too broken for you to fix him."

"No," Hawke said, wiping her nose. She crossed her arms again on her knees. "I'm too broken to fix him."

"What?" Aveline said, shaking her head in disbelief. "It's not your job to fix him."

"Isn't it?" Hawke said angrily. "It was my kind who broke him."

"It was the doing of a bunch of evil psychopaths!" Aveline protested in outrage. She stared intently at her. "This is not on you, Hawke."

"It's our bloody collective mess," she said in annoyance, looking away. She gestured dramatically. "How can I justify a world of peaceful co-existence when this is the extent of the damage one mage can cause to another person, let alone a whole village, a-a city, the whole world?"

Aveline closed her mouth. "This is about Lothering."

"Yes, Aveline. It's about Lothering!" Hawke said bitchily, standing up. She covered her face as she paced back and forth in front of the fireplace. "I'm always in Lothering! I'm always in front of that Chantry, at this funeral or that funeral!" she said, gesturing forcefully. She stopped pacing, trying to hold in her tears. "I'm always in that cage."

Aveline stared at her sadly. She didn't know what to say.

"This is why I stayed away from my magic. This is why I try to save anything that breathes. This is why I can't stand with the Libertarians even though they're the only ones who get anything done!" Hawke rambled, pacing back and forth. "This is why it kills me that I can't stop Merrill from ruining her life!"

"Hawke, you're not responsible—" Aveline pressed.

"The truth is, Aveline, there is barely a mage I know who hasn't done blood magic at one point or another in their life," Hawke cut her. "Whether accidental or intentional, we do it, and it gets easier every time. I can still feel it, even now. It was so easy, and so…" she said, looking at her hand, "… satisfying."

"What?" Aveline said, frowning.

"I loved it when that claw ripped her to shreds," Hawke said, her head turning towards her. "I loved it. It wasn't my idea, but it felt so good. I thought why shouldn't I do this more often? Why go through all the pain of doing everything right for some extra few years on my lifespan when I'm hated anyway? What am I gonna do with them except dealing with more of the same bullshit? Why bother convincing anyone of anything?" she said, laughing at herself. Then her smile died. "I could just make people do I what I want. It would solve all my problems."

"You're scaring me," Aveline said, staring at her.

Hawke's eyes softened and saddened. She looked at the fire. "Good," she whispered.

Evening, Hightown

When he looked at Hawke's house, at that door, the chill in the air felt like frostbite. He was shaking. Terrible shaking.

He looked at the red band. 'Fuck you, Fenris' resounded in his ears. Never had her voice sounded so flat, so serious, and he fully deserved it. He hadn't just hurt her—he used her. He'd used her as an outlet for his trauma; he'd used her kindness to make himself feel better; he'd used her for vengeance, and then he might as well have spat on her.

He had really hurt her, he thought, looking at his tattooed hand.

Just like you—beyond repair, the big bad wolf said.

Come now, the boring band-aid bath guy intervened. Mages had earned your trust… and you theirs. You may have burned that bridge, but there's nowhere else to turn back.

Your body is locked. Tied to her. Now allowed to die, the gruff one said.

There is no magic there, the boring band-aid bath guy said.

It's more powerful than any blood magic, the gruff one said.

He couldn't leave home…

Grab a brick and start sweating, fool, the gruff one said.

Fenris took a step forward, and then he felt it, in his arms—the weight of his old friend.

What do you think you're doing right now? the big bad wolf said. Coming to some greater awareness? Look at everything you've done. Look at this theatre you've created, long after it was necessary. You're just pretending you don't hate them. You're just pretending you love her, even to yourself.

He knew what he had to do.

Evening, The Piss & Quiet

Fenris stepped into the last refuge of the cowardly and black-hearted. He had only one intention.

When he saw Zath at the table in the corner, all his furies went away. He passed the bar with a kind of euphoria, and stared at the kid.

"Whoa. You're proper beautiful," a strange girl in colourful knitwear said.

He hadn't even noticed there were others. The boy who used to hide behind the carboard was also there, as well as a dark-haired girl with a lethal look. "I don't see it," she said flatly. Was she disappointed in him too?

"Beauty is in the soul," Fenris said. "Mine is a little worse for wear."

"Don't speak to her, Pissfaggot," Zath hissed, standing up. "What do you want?"

"A moment of your time," Fenris said, throwing a coin pouch at him and leaving the bar.

He followed, circling around the building.

"What's this for?" Zath said.

Fenris crossed his arms. "You wanted your game expansion, did you not?"

Zath giggled to himself. "You really want another beatdown."

"I don't have all night," Fenris said flatly.

Zath looked at the coin pouch in his hand. His fingers tightened on it, but something inside him changed. "No," he said with an odd smile.

"No?" Fenris said, his blood beginning to boil.

"No," Zath said calmly. He held the coin pouch in the air by its string. "And if I catch you trying to dangle some cash at any other elf for your sick self-abuse, I'm going to kill you," he said, putting the coin pouch back into his hand and throwing it right into Fenris's stomach.

The boy seemed serious, maskless.

"Good luck with that," Fenris said, leaving.

"We're not your fucking pawns, Pissfaggot," Zath said after him. "You come to the Alienage again, you're dead."

Night time, The Hawke Estate

Hawke couldn't sleep. Indelible human nature kept her up at night.

Aveline had already fallen asleep in the guest bathrobe. Her hair was starting to catch a little wave. Hawke had helped her give it some shape since Fenris's blood claw made a mess out of it. She'd made it into a shaggy bob, fixed her headband back on, then Aveline swore Fenris would pay for what he'd done. But to her, she looked very pretty.

With Mojo also very much asleep, Hawke went in the main hall to inventory the loot. There was enough magic jewellery to open up a small shop, and one of the staffs was plated with gold. For what? For why?

Something was vibrating under her bum. She'd pocketed it and forgotten about it—an odd device in the shape of a shellfish. She opened it and a jarring purple light came out of it. The silhouette of an old man appeared.

"Hadriana?" the floating beard said. There was anxiety in his voice.

"Hadriana isn't feeling well right now," Hawke said. "Can I take a message?"

"Hawke, is it?" Danarius said with disappointment.

"Y'alright, love?" she said with a smug smile.

"You were prettier in the painting."

Hawke opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The painting gave her a second blow that night. At least this explained why the copy had arrived late.

"The touch-up came at no extra cost," she said, grinning. "People tend to like me."

"So I hear."

Hawke tilted her head. "Are you going to be my biggest fan?"

"I might just. 'The Hero of Lowtown'," Danarius said, though his adulation hid mockery. "Get used to disappointment, my dear. The more power you have, the less liked you will be." He brushed his beard. "You ought to value respect over adoration."

"I'm truly touched by your grandpa wisdom," Hawke said sweetly. "Though you might want to get yourself checked. You're giving advice to your enemies."

"Why must we be enemies?" Danarius said calmly. "We, mages, need to stick together."

Hawke held in her breath. If he knew that, what else did he know?

"I know of your efforts to change the Orlesian Chantry, as well as the terrible position you have put yourself in the process," Danarius said. "I could open quite a few doors for you, as well as close some pesky ones… and I only ask one thing in return."

"Yeah, I'm not feeling it," Hawke said. "It's quite the conflict of interest."

"Quite," Danarius said. "The boy is rather skilled, isn't he?"

"He knows his way around a heart."

"I'll give you another piece of advice, my dear," Danarius said. "Don't waste your heart on him. He will break it like he did mine, and run away at the first opportunity."

"Perhaps you should have treated him better."

Danarius scoffed. "He had everything." And he meant it.

Hawke raised her eyebrows and gasped dramatically. "He did? Well, that changes everything."

"You are a Southerner, and do not understand," Danarius said. "Freedom in this society is not easy on someone like him. A high-ranking slave to a well-respected magister is the safest position an elf from Seheron could ever dream of."

"I'm sure you were thinking of his safety while you raped him," Hawke said, dropping the mask.

Danarius laughed. "Is that what he told you?"

"He didn't need to tell me anything."

Danarius chuckled. "You tell yourself whatever little story you wish for why he doesn't look you in the eye when you—"

"I don't need blood magic to be looked in the eye, grandpa D," Hawke said tiredly, looking away. "I'm bored of you now. Toodles."

He was saying something surely threatening, but Hawke did not want to hear it and closed the seashell. She almost threw it across her desk when she heard Aveline on the stairs: "What a fucking sleezebag."

"Uh… huh," Hawke said, fiddling with her quill.

"You have the proof and the witnesses to attest to the Imperial threat against Fenris and yourself," Aveline said. "He won't convince anyone in Kirkwall you're a mage."

"He has money and people," Hawke said, chewing on her thumbnail. "None of it has to be traced back to Imperial actors."

"He has money and people, and yet can't apprehend one sorry elf?" Aveline said, crossing her arms. "Stop being stupid."

"I'm not smart," Hawke agreed tiredly, looking away. She buried her face in her hands. "What should I do, Aveline?"

"Sleep," she said, touching her shoulder. "As Donnic often needs to tell me—you will do better in the morning."

Nigh time, "Diner"

Fenris took a seat at the cramped little bar, in a midnight diner run by a Qunari spy pretending to be a refugee. 'Seheroni dishes' was all that the menu said, and he immediately regretted going in. He didn't know any.

"What will it be?" Zola said flatly, tall and stalwart and full of stains on his short apron.

Fenris stared at him. "Surprise me."

Zola turned back without a word and went into his little kitchen. Fenris studied the place some more. There was nothing to write home about. Well, at least there was no one else there. And it smelled nice—like tea and incense.

He sighed, staring at the table. Even as he'd went outside the Piss and Quiet, he knew it was the worst decision he could ever make for everyone involved, and he did it anyway. It seemed like the easier choice. Again…

He wasn't even drunk to cushion the blow of the bedrock he had reached.

What was he thinking? A grown man going back to some kids to get himself beat up? He was a coward, killing himself softly, avoiding the real punishment.

He'd always checked himself out of the Alienage conversation, because it bummed it out too hard. He'd thought if he just maintained a stoic relationship with the realities of his race, he may do no good, but, more importantly, he would do no harm. After meeting Hawke, he'd tried to do the same with mages, but none of it worked.

He'd thought of himself as a man of his own principles, and one of them was holding himself to those Maker-damned principles, but he'd been betraying himself at every turn—he'd helped them; he'd used them; he'd confused them and himself.

Hawke made him fall in love with the world. The Patriarch moved him cruelly through it.

Who will you choose, Fenris? the hanged man said.

Be careful, friend, the boring band-aid bath guy said.

He's a very monogamous man, our Fenris, the hard-up grinning lunatic said.

Congratulations, chief. You're the belle of the dumbest ball in the universe, the gruff one said.

It seemed silly, but it wasn't. He really had a problem. He could barely catch himself going down that old wanton road. He'd thought he'd gotten away from it, but he'd been carrying it with him all this time. If he wasn't careful, he could get stuck there forever.

This was a sign. The Maker was showing him how much harm he was willing to do to make himself feel better. It was easy before—it was just him; he could poison his heart as many times as he wanted. But now? Now he had her heart, and he made himself at home—in the worst possible way.

"Maraas-lok?" Zola said, suddenly in front of him. He put two small cups on the bar.

Fenris stared at the bottle in his hand. "Don't let me have another," he said, letting him pour one in.

Zola was profiling him, and he'd already failed by acknowledging Qunlat. Though at this point every Qunari in Kirkwall probably knew who he was. The Arishok liked him—for sentimental reasons.

"Anaan," Zola said, raising his cup.

In a way, he should have been thankful for their presence. It was likely the only reason the Tevinter hunters didn't have the guts to infiltrate Kirkwall anymore.

"Anaan," Fenris said, clinking them together.

That was it. The giant went back to his little kitchen.

He'd forgotten how pleasant it was to be around Qunari. Except… he couldn't remember. But wasn't that just repeating himself?

A reddish creamy soup arrived under his chin, and to his surprise, his appetite went wild. It was… incredible. And wrong.

"Problem?" Zola said, frowning.

"Something's missing," Fenris said, brooding.

"Nothing's missing."

Fenris ignored him, and kept brooding over his spoon.

Nuts, the hanged man said.

"Nuts," Fenris said.

"Nuts?" Zola asked flatly.

"Do you have any?"

"Yes."

Fenris pursed his lips, looking at the stony unmoving cook. "Can I have some?"

"You shouldn't put nuts in a soh-plikah," Zola said sternly. "You're nuts."

He wasn't wrong.

"Trust me. The nuts bring out the flavour in the coconut and chilli," Fenris said. "Do you have macademia or almonds?"

"Cashews."

"That… sounds even better."

Zola eyed him with suspicion. "What part of Seheron are you from?"

Fenris shrugged wanly.

Zola looked down, nodding to himself. "One of the northern islands in the Boeric Ocean. Mainlanders aren't big on nuts."

"Then they're nuts," Fenris said flatly.

A corner of Zola's mouth curled briefly into a grin. He looked over him, then said: "Show me."

He didn't have to. It wasn't that complicated. But something moved him beyond the bar.

"Like this?" Zola said, roasting the cashew nuts.

"Pretty much," Fenris said.

"Watch them," Zola said. He proceeded to get all the raw ingredients out on the counter.

Fenris closed his mouth. This man was strange. Or bored.

But the time that followed was peaceful and enjoyable. Zola prepared everything with care and precision, and made no unnecessary chit chat. He'd crack a dead-pan joke once in a while, and towards the end he told him a war story. For a moment, Fenris forgot where he was, and when he was. He felt like he was in another universe. Somewhere long gone, out of reach, that used to feel like home.

When Zola tasted the new dish, he looked both happy and sad. He was happy-sad.

Fenris grinned, while the sound of new customers came from the bar. "Anaan," he said. It also meant 'victory'.

Zola gave him a bowl. "Mashev," he commanded and left to tend to the customers.

Something about how that man told him to eat his soup made him feel happy. And sad. Now he was happy-sad.

His emotions skewed one particular direction once he realised he had so much work ahead of him he was in no mood to do.

"Would you be interested in a side job?" Fenris said when Zola came back to cook.

"What job?" Zola said.

"I'm having a party in a couple of days, and I could use another pair of hands in the kitchen."

Hawke was not going to help him anymore. He knew it in his soul.

"No," Zola said.

Fenris felt inexplicably hurt.

"But I know a boy with a knack," Zola said. "He could use the coin."

Fenris gulped silently. "Who?"

"They call him Sticky," Zola said. "Runs around with a redheaded little shit."

"Great," Fenris said to himself. "Thanks for the tip," he said, standing up.

"Good luck," Zola said stoically.

Fenris was going to leave, but something stopped him. "I know who you really are, by the way."

Zola stopped stirring his pot.

"So, if Hawke comes by again baring her heart out to you, be careful with what you report back," Fenris threatened. He looked at the bar, where a couple of Templars were sat. "You seem to be treating this new post like retirement. You want it to stay that way, yes?"

Zola said nothing, and started stirring again.

"Great," Fenris said. "Tell Bull I said hi."

The Fog Dream, The Fade

Fenris found the theatre; no more excuses. The Patriarch waited at the door. He looked tired.

Yet somehow it was still agony to look into his eyes. Fenris talked to his feet, instead. "In or out, wolf."

"You're making a mistake," the Patriarch said.

"I don't care," Fenris said, looking at his tail.

The Patriarch growled lowly. "After everything I've done for—"

"What?" Fenris cut him. "What have you done? What have you done other than hate me and everyone and everything in the world until there is no more magic left? Of any kind?!" he roared.

The tail stopped wagging as the earth shook. The growls of the red half-blind leviathan came from the forest in the distance.

"I did what I could with what I knew," the Patriarch said, assuming his form. He walked up to him angrily. "I did something. What have you done?"

Fenris looked away.

"Exactly," the Patriarch said. "Nothing. You did nothing. You left me to deal with that mess, and you ran away!" he said, pointing to the half-blind giant in the distance.

"I'm here now!" Fenris snapped. "I'm doing something; and you're not making it easy."

The Patriarch came right into his face, laughing a low rattling laugh. "Why the fuck should I trust you?"

"Because I'm not a child," Fenris said, looking at him finally. "I am thirty Maker-damned years old."

"Is that so?" the Patriarch said.

"Yes," Fenris said. "Time has passed. I've moved on with my life. Perhaps you should too."

"And do what?" the Patriarch snapped.

"I don't know! Retire! Take up a fucking hobby!" Fenris said angrily, staring into his red eyes. "Or be an actual wolf," he said, softening his voice. "Help me be a real father. A good one."

For a moment, the Patriarch hesitated. He couldn't help but look at the half-blind leviathan wreaking havoc on the world.

"You owe it to your Antaam," Fenris said. "We are it. Be a part of it."

"I am not going to be a part of this," the Patriarch said, walking past him.

Fenris closed his eyes and breathed out, looking at the giant doors.

Inside the theatre, a strange visage met him. Beyond all the empty seats, a dark-haired elven woman hung upside down above the stage, her facial features everchanging; he tried to make her face steady in his mind, but it just wasn't happening. Beneath her, the other parts of himself were sitting on scattered chairs, talking to themselves.

"Ah, here comes the Reaper," the hanged woman said in a deep voice. "The boy who endured. He overcame death and became a ghost. Who knocks at your door at night? Who screams down your chimney? A wight? No… Just the wind."

Fenris looked at the vines of juniper and orange suspending her in the air. Her dress was made of the same stuff as well as other greens of the earth. "You have strings, too."

"Everyone has strings, Fenris," the hanged woman said.

The way his name resided in her mouth was strange. Familiar. It wasn't a name; it was a term of endearment. To his ears, it sounded like, "Everyone has strings, cub."

"You remember me, while everyone else forgot," Fenris said, looking at the others.

"I remember you," the hanged woman said. "I know what you did yesterday, and what you will do tomorrow."

"What will I do tomorrow?"

"Everything will be decided this week. A terrible appointment is in store for you, cub, and you will not emerge from it victorious," she said. "Indeed, I know the key to glory, but… alas." She tilted her head, her voice deepening. "It will be of no use to Fenris, The Reaper."

"Why not?"

"Only a man with an open heart can overcome an adversary like the Patriarch. Indeed, only a man with an open heart can overcome pain."

"So, if I had a softer heart, you'd teach me how to win this duel?"

"Maybe. Possibly," the hanged woman said. "But it's useless to explain to a heartless man. Give heart, cub, rather than take. If you ever find it again, that is."

Fenris looked down at himself. He was indeed wearing the Reaper's clothes.

"What are those?" he said, looking at the others. They were all talking to themselves while holding notebooks, as if they were rehearsing something.

"These?" the hanged woman said. "Oh, they are merely reminders. Anchors." Her everchanging face turned to him. "We are actors, so we play… yet any play, performance or game… is a cage."

"Is that so?"

"This theatre is a cage. It's a game being played by the rules written by someone else," the hanged woman warned. "How can a heartless man escape such a cage? That is the question. And we are eager find the answer. Who knows?" she said, looking down at him. "Perhaps you will be of help in this matter."

"I will," Fenris said, going on stage.

"Never agree to play a game if you don't understand the rules," the hanged woman warned him. "Now that you have, you must understand the rules. Then challenge and change those rules, cub. Challenge and change."

Fenris flared his nostrils. "The key to glory is annoyingly vague."

The hanged woman chuckled softly. "Then let me speak plainly. You need to find yourself."

"Find myself? What am I? A bored noblewoman?" Fenris said sarcastically.

"You don't understand, cub," the hanged woman said. "I was speaking literally. No metaphors. Find yourself." The theatre started shaking beneath his feet. "Waste no time."

Morning, The Alienage

"Aren't you late for practice?" Elren said to Lia in his shop.

Lia continued to restock without a look in his direction. "I'd rather help you here."

Elren scoffed. "Since when?"

"Since… now," Lia said, taking the broom.

"Alright…" Elren said, unconvinced. "May need some help 'round here soon, anyway. You are looking at the new prospective elven rep to the Keep."

"What?" Lia said incredulously, turning to face him.

He was so proud he looked like he'd grown two inches. "Your dad's gonna make the world better."

"That's incredible!" Lia said, running to hug him. "They couldn't have picked a better person for the job."

"Indeed," she heard Serah Fenris behind her.

Elren stopped hugging her. "They haven't yet," he said, clearing his throat. "You have things to discuss, yes?" he said, making to leave.

"Uh, don't you need me in the back?" Lia stammered.

"No," Elren said, going alone.

"Why didn't you show up?" Fenris said flatly.

"I…" Lia said, going behind the till. It made her feel safer from his disappointed look. "I don't know. I had to think."

"Do you not want to be a guardswoman?" Fenris said, approaching the till.

"I do, but…" Lia said, looking at her feet. "It's just… a lot of right now."

"Are you afraid of what others might say?" Fenris pushed.

"No," Lia said confidently. She looked away, hesitating to say the rest.

"Do you like iced cream?" Fenris said.

Morning, Hightown

Fenris and Lia sat on a bench in front of the Keep eating iced cream. She was very uncomfortable.

"It's intimidating, isn't it?" he said.

"Yeah," Lia said with half a voice.

"The question is—why?"

"What?"

"Why does it intimidate you?"

Lia brooded in her iced cream. "I don't… I don't think I'm a good person."

Fenris dropped some on his lap. He wasn't expecting that answer. "Why do you think you're a bad person?"

"I…" Lia said, sighing in frustration. "I did something bad, okay? I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay," Fenris said softly.

"I just…" Lia said in the silence that followed. "I think what happened to me messed me up more than I thought. I don't think I'm good for the Guard, or… anyone."

She shouldn't have said anything. It hurt when she laid her heart bare and nothing came out of him.

"I understand," Fenris said eventually.

Lia looked at him. "What do I do?"

"You come back to practice," Fenris said, licking his iced cream.

"I just said—"

"Everyone's got issues," Fenris said. "You can't just hide away from the world."

"I can do whatever the fuck I want," Lia snapped.

"Correct," Fenris said, standing up. His eyes ran over the city square. "You are free."

Lia looked at her knees. "I don't feel free," she whispered.

"I know," Fenris said, kneeling in front of her. He searched her eyes. "Because you aren't truly free."

Lia saddened. A cold wind blew in her hair, despite the bright sun in the sky.

"Freedom is what you do with what's been done to you," Fenris said. His eyes fell. "I learned that the hard way." He looked up at her. "But you don't have to."

Lia looked at the giant intimidating building of her dreams, where the second worst man in the world went to work every day. A man she had almost murdered.

"I think I do."

"Then let me make it easier for you," Fenris said. "There is a woman better than I who is eager to meet you."

While Lia was in Aveline's office, Fenris ran into Donnic.

"You look very tired," Fenris said.

"I couldn't sleep," Donnic said, rubbing his face. "There's… a lot to do this morning."

Two guardsmen were dead; perhaps friends.

"Good luck," Fenris said, touching his shoulder.

Donnic looked at his hand as if he'd seen a spider on himself.

"I'm sorry," Fenris said.

Donnic sighed, blinking sleepily. "You're alright."

"Thank you for being my friend yesterday," Fenris said. "I… don't think I know how to be one."

The Guard-Captain's door opened with a creak. Aveline looked pleased as she saw Lia out, though her smile died when she saw him.

"Everything takes practice," Donnic said, yawning.