Hawke had been enjoying the friendly banter with Fenris these past few days. His sense of humor was certainly an acquired taste, but it was one that had grown on her over the years. Today, however, something was wrong. Fenris hadn't said three words to her all morning, and now his horse had slowed in front of her.

"What in the Void is wrong with you today?" Hawke chided him. Fenris didn't answer, and Hawke felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She urged her horse over beside his, but he was already falling. "Fenris!"

Hawke leapt down from her horse and rushed to his side. Fenris didn't move… He was pale and sweating, and Hawke took off her glove to feel his forehead. Maker's breath… he was burning with fever.

...

They had rushed to a nearby village, bringing Fenris to a room at the lone inn. The innkeeper took one look at Fenris and his face grew grave. "Flybite Fever…" he had explained, pointing out the tiny red marks on the back of Fenris's neck. "The mud flies have been awful these last few weeks."

"We've all been bitten," Hawke had argued, "but he's the only one ill."

"I have no answer for you… Some people get sicker than others. The locals seem to do well, even the children, but foreigners…"

"How bad?" Hawke asked, voice tight.

The innkeeper couldn't meet her eyes. "There was an Antivan merchant… He… died this morning."

Hawke wrung the water out of the rag and tried to push the innkeeper's words out of her mind. Fenris was stronger than the Antivan merchant. He had to be.

She set the cooled rag on Fenris's forehead and tried to get him to swallow more spindleweed tea. She was trying to keep his fever down, but it still felt like a fire was burning under his skin. It worried her. Without really knowing at the time, Hawke had learned some things about healing from Anders. Fever was actually curative, but it was dangerous if it went too high or lasted too long. Frustratingly, Hawke didn't know how to tell where that line between curative and dangerous was.

Even more frustratingly, the local healer had done nothing more than give her spindleweed and instructions for the tea. Flybite Fever had to run its course, she had said. A mage healer might have helped. During outbreaks of disease it wasn't uncommon for the Templars to escort a few healers to the affected area. With the Circles in rebellion and the Templars growing more and more… touchy… that was an impossible hope at this point.

Suddenly, Fenris stirred, moaning softly and turning his head. The rag slipped from his brow, but Hawke hardly noticed. This was the first time he had awoken since falling from his horse, and her eyes were locked onto his.

"Stay with me, Fenris," Hawke pleaded, hoping to keep him conscious.

He gazed at her hazily. "Of course…" he murmured, "I… could never… leave you… Hawke. I…" His speech devolved into incoherent Tevene, and he fell back into a fitful sleep once more.

Hawke felt a blush heat her cheeks. She was sure she wasn't meant to hear that. It was just the fever talking, after all. It was something she could tease him about later… yes, when he was well again. It did her no good to dwell on it now.

...

At some point near dawn, Hawke found herself roused by Fenris stirring once more. She hadn't meant to doze off, and now she regretted it, sitting up stiffly from the bedside chair.

Fenris wasn't awake this time, just tossing and turning in his fevered sleep. What worried Hawke was how fast and labored his breathing was. She put a hand to his cheek and drew it back in shock. How had he gotten hotter? Frantically, she pulled back the blankets and stripped off his shirt, wiping the damp rag across his neck and chest. She tried the tea again too, desperate to do something.

This was different than the shipwreck. Then, like every other time Fenris had been in danger, Hawke could see a clear path to aiding him. She could rush somewhere or stab someone to make him, or any of her companions, safer. She could risk herself in the hope they would all make it out alive. With this fever, however, she could make no such trade of her safety for his.

Maker, she couldn't lose him…

Hawke hadn't properly prayed since Lothering. She couldn't even remember the words… but she tried. She couldn't lose him… please…

...

Fenris awoke slowly, finding his body heavy and his head light. He felt sticky with sweat, and his mouth dry, with a lingering herbal taste he couldn't identify. He opened his eyes, confused by the unfamiliar ceiling of wooden beams. He felt a rising fear from not remembering and sat up quickly… too quickly… too quickly…

Fenris lay back down and instead turned his head. To his right, there was a window, glowing with the soft blue light of dawn. The window was simple glass, he could break it and jump out if need be. He wasn't trapped. He took a deep breath, some of his fear eased. He turned to his left, and what remained of the fear escaped from him.

Hawke.

She was asleep, sitting on a chair but leaning onto his bed, her head resting on her folded arms. Fenris glanced around the room beyond her, another window, a table with chairs. He saw his armor piled in the corner, his sword leaning against the nearby wall.

No, if he had Hawke and he had his sword, Fenris had little to fear.

He sat up, slowly this time, and reached over, intending to wake Hawke. Instead he heard a soft click, and his eyes shot to the door.

A girl entered silently, turning to close the door gingerly without even glancing in his direction. When she turned back around, however, her eyes met his. She let out a gasp and nearly dropped the tray she was carrying.

"Who are you?" Fenris growled.

The girl composed herself and then frowned. "Hush, messere. Your friend there has missed quite a lot of sleep at your expense." Her face softened. "I work here at this inn."

Fenris reined in his anger, content with her answer. "How did I get here?"

"I expect your friends dragged you. You were in no shape to ride."

Fenris restrained his frustration. He now vaguely remembered feeling out of sorts that morning, though he was still not sure about anything after that. Before he could ask another question, the girl set down the tray before him.

"Now, don't think we're stingy here," she fussed, "I meant this bowl for her, and she hasn't had much appetite since she's been fretting over you. Also, you better eat it slowly if you don't want it coming back up. I'll bring more for you later."

Looking at the stew and fresh bread, Fenris felt suddenly ravenous. Her comment about eating slowly, however, made him cautious. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Nearly two days, messere."

Two days? The shock must have been obvious on his face, because the girl continued. "You've been wracked with Flybite Fever this whole time. You've clearly survived, so I suppose I don't have to feel guilty…" She giggled. "I've enjoyed watching a lady care for her knight with such tenderness. It was quite cute."

Fenris bristled. "I'm no knight." And nothing involving him was ever cute.

The girl ignored him, going to the shelf across the room and pulling out a well-worn copy of Tale of the Champion. "No," she chuckled, holding out the book for him to see, "you're not a knight, but you are hers."

Fenris cursed Varric for his book. It was bad enough the dwarf had exaggerated so, but it was another insult entirely to be fodder for the romantic fantasies of young girls.

Still grinning, the girl whisked the book away. "I'll draw you a bath in the room across the hall and I'll bring more food for both of you later. Remember, she hasn't slept, so leave her be."

The girl left, closing the door softly behind her.

...

Several things surprised Fenris that morning. First, the quality of the stew was not to be underestimated. Even as he prepared for his bath, Fenris looked forward to eating more. Secondly, he was no longer wearing his own clothes. These were clearly meant for a human, being of reasonable length, but far too baggy. He didn't dare ask the girl where the clothes had come from, but the assumption that Hawke had undressed and redressed him brought the tiniest bit of color to his face. In the end, it didn't matter, because he was surprised to find his own clothes washed and neatly folded beside the tub. The girl was good at her job, despite her sass.

When Fenris finished his bath, he was pleased to see another half bowl of stew waiting for him on the table. He was nearly finished when Hawke began to stir. Fenris wasn't sure if she would fall back asleep, so he observed quietly.

Hawke clearly was awake because she glanced at the empty bed and sat up with a start. "Fenris!" she cried, her voice a strangled yelp.

The pain in her voice startled him, sympathy tightening in his chest. "Hawke," he quickly called, drawing her attention to him. She turned in the chair to face him. The relief in her eyes…

"You're…" she breathed. Without warning, she hung her head, fists clenched on her knees. It worried Fenris, and he slowly stood. With patient strides, he drew closer, close enough to see tears falling onto her hands. Tentatively, he reached out, placing a hand gently atop her head. Without even thinking, his hand slid down through her hair, resting against her cheek. She still didn't look at him, but she took his hand in both of hers and held it tightly.

"I saw the bed empty and I thought…"

Fenris hushed her. "No, I'm fine."

Soon, Hawke's tears stopped. She let go of his hand. "Sorry," she sniffed, "I know you don't like to be touched."

My markings won't hurt if it's you, Fenris wanted to say. Instead he offered a more vague response as he sat down on the bed. "It's alright. My markings don't hurt right now."

Hawke nodded, and, much to Fenris's surprised and delight, took his hand back in her own.

"Why didn't you wake me?" she asked. There was some accusation in her gaze, but it was overwhelmed by relief.

"I was told you hadn't slept," Fenris explained.

"No one was supposed to tell you that," Hawke complained, though the slight smirk on her face told him it was an empty protest.

He looked at her carefully, felt the warmth of her hand around his, and Maker he wanted to tell her how he felt. He wanted to tell her that meeting her was the most important thing that had ever happened to him. He wanted to tell her that every future he could even dream for himself included her. He wanted to tell her that she was beautiful and that he yearned for her in a way he had never expected. He wanted to say all those things, but he held his tongue.

Now, with tears still in her eyes and the image of him ill still in her mind, was not the time. No, she was too vulnerable. When he told her how he had felt, all this time, he needed her mind clear, her defenses up. He needed her to be in the right mind to reject him if she was meant to reject him. He needed to know she was happy not just with the idea of not losing him, but with the idea of keeping him. For her sake and his, it couldn't be now.

...

Hawke awoke the next morning, surprised again that her sleep had been dreamless. With the shipwreck and the fatigue of travel, she hadn't even realized… Now, waking up in a nice warm inn, in a nice soft bed, she noticed the dream hadn't come to her. She felt a strange mix of relief and emptiness at the same time. Hearing Anders's last words echo in her mind each night had been to her a form of atonement. What did it mean if those words were gone?

She wondered if it was because she had left Kirkwall.

Sitting up, Hawke looked across the room. The pallet on the floor was empty. Fenris… She sighed.

Last night they had argued about accommodations. There had been no more rooms available, so they would have to share. That wasn't odd, they had traveled together often before. Someone in the party had always kept a running tally of who got the bed, the chair, the floor for that night. It was with that logic that Fenris argued it was her turn for the bed. She had argued he was still getting over his illness, so he should have the bed. In the end, the serving girl had arranged the pallet, though Hawke did not miss her comment about them sharing the bed. Fenris had claimed the pallet with a growl, ending the argument. Perhaps he'd heard the girl's comment, too.

Now, he, his armor, and his sword were suspiciously absent.

Hawke yawned as she climbed out of bed and walked to the window. She took a mental bet regarding what she would see when she pulled back the curtains.

Andraste's Ashes…

Sure enough, Fenris was out in the small yard between the inn and the stable, dashing around with his sword in a sort of practiced dance that only he knew. He was supposed to be resting. Hawke sighed. She owed herself fifty sovereigns.

It didn't matter too much, anyway. Riding hardly fatigued Fenris, and they were heading out immediately. One good day on the road and they would be in Denerim.