Hawke was more familiar with magic than most non-mages. In battle, there was a tangible energy to it that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Spells she couldn't see flew through the air around her, cracking like whips. This wasn't that magic.

Her father's magic had been warm and steady, with a pressure like a reassuring hand on her shoulder. This wasn't that magic.

Her sister's magic had a coolness to it, and a fierce defiance that reminded Hawke of the edge of her own blades. This wasn't that magic.

Merrill's magic was bright and inquisitive. It always made Hawke laugh to think of a cheerful blood mage, but it was true. This wasn't that magic.

Anders's magic had been healing at its very core. There was a strange and separate righteous fury if you looked too close, but it was first healing, always healing. This wasn't that magic.

This magic was… heavy, pungent. It filled her lungs and made it hard to breath, hard to move. It was an unsettling thing to wake up to, if she was awake at all. Hawke could hardly be sure, everything felt so thick and hazy. She gazed at blurry shadows and tried to dredge something, anything out of her recent memory. She had been looking for something… someone… Bethany. Something had gone wrong, and Bethany could be in danger. That simple thought filled her with fear and pulled her to awareness.

It was that little trait, the fact that fear sharpened Hawke's mind rather than clouding it, that had kept her alive again and again.

Her head buzzed with pain. She remembered something had hit her. She was lying on the floor, on her side. Her arms were bound behind her, but the floor pressed a familiar curve of metal into her hip. She had at least one dagger. Who would bind her but not think to disarm her?

Hawke was facing the wall, but she tilted her head, looking down the side of a large, dimly lit room. Down at the other end of the wall there was a shape, a lumpy pile of cloth. Hawke frowned, unable to tell… Oh… In the pile, she could make out a hand, chalk white… Maker, the pile was made of bodies.

Slowly, she rolled and twisted so that she was upright, on her knees. She could see the rest of the room then, mostly empty. Near her, however, was an altar lit with candles. A man, dressed in dark robes, stood before the altar, chanting. Hendric stood beside him, perfectly still. Hawke almost couldn't believe it, but there was no mistaking the Kirkwall City Guard armor.

None of this looked good.

Hawke tested the binding on her wrists. It was tight, but if she shifted just right… Yes, she could feel the rope catching against the hilt of her dagger, just brushing the edge of the blade. It would take time, but Hawke could work with this. Meanwhile, she kept her eyes on the robed man.

The man had to be the source of the magic. Judging by the pile of bodies and the vile way the magic felt, the man was a blood mage. Hawke just hoped his spell would take him a while, that she would have the chance to take him unaware.

Suddenly, the chanting stopped, and the man turned to look at her. So much for her plan.

"So glad to see you awake, my dear Champion!" he called, his voice twisting at her title.

"Lovely to make your acquaintance, messere," Hawke replied, "but I'm actually looking for my sister."

"Your sister?" The mage dissolved into hysterical laughter. "I sincerely hope that your sister is a pile of bones at the bottom of the Deep Roads. Sadly, however, I can't claim credit. I've never seen your sister. I merely put the thought in your guardsman's head that he had seen her."

Hawke let out a long, slow breath. Bethany was safe, at least as safe as a Warden could be.

The mage's laughter faded, his stare like ice. "You know, I used your sister to lure you because I know exactly what it's like to have a little sister. You want nothing more than to protect her, don't you? I know I wanted to protect Everly. I kept her safe, even in that wretched Circle at the Gallows.

"I kept her safe until the day of the Rebellion. I kept her safe until your mage, your Templars, your choices brought everything raining down on us. She died in that battle, and here you are, Viscount of Kirkwall. How does your victory taste Champion? Like blood?"

Hawke's new plan had been to goad the mage into conversation, to work on the rope while playing along. As he spoke, certainly, she had worked on the rope, but she had also listened. She had also heard the pain in his voice, felt it tightening in her own chest. So many had died that day…

"I'm sorry," Hawke whispered.

"I can't hear you!" he screamed.

"I'm sorry your sister died," she repeated. "Not a day goes by that I don't wish…"

"No," the mage cut her off. "No, you don't get to tell your lies here. Here is where you receive your judgement." He waved his hand and Hendric walked over to him.

"If it's me you want then why keep using him?" Hawke asked. "He's had no part in any of this."

The mage smirked and shrugged. "Why not?" He snapped his fingers, and Hendric drew his sword. Hawke expected that sword to come down on her, but instead the guardsman held it up and opened his own neck. There was no hesitation. The movement was so swift, that even as the blood poured out, Hawke could scarcely believe what she was seeing.

Meanwhile the mage was chanting again, and that heavy, awful feeling of magic in the air was stronger than ever. The blood on the floor began to steam and glow like liquid embers, forming, growing. The chanting stopped and the mage smiled. "Did you really think I'd have you simply die by the sword? No, I'm a dangerous mage, after all. A demon only seems fitting."

The molten glow swelled and bubbled until it was taller than the mage himself, until it finally opened two smoldering eyes, and trained them on her. Hawke stared back, working on cutting the last of the rope. If she couldn't get free, the rage demon would have no trouble burning her to ashes.

The rage demon let out a scream and charged. Hawke rolled away, so close to the demon she could smell her own singed hair and leather. She fought the rope at her wrists one more time, and just like that, she was free. Hawke leapt further away, a dagger in each hand.

"Marvelous!" the mage cried. "Getting to watch your futile struggles… This is even better than I dreamed!"

Hawke parried the slash of flaming claws, trying to get away, to find an exit. She knew her blades alone were not enough to stop a demon this powerful. The exertion made her head throb, brought the pain from a buzz to a piercing agony. She barely dodged the demon's next swipe, but it screamed again in frustration.

Suddenly, the demon's attention turned, tracking something it wanted more than Hawke.

"NO!" the mage screeched. "You're supposed to kill her!"

A door on the other side of the room burst open, and the demon screamed again. Hawke should have used this chance to run, but it was suddenly so hard to move… Awareness fading, Hawke looked on as a blue glow darted around the rage demon. That color blue… Fenris…

The mage was fighting too now, shooting blasts of energy that distracted Fenris from the demon. A slash of the demon's arm knocked him down, but he was on his feet immediately, going for the mage now. His sword blocked another flash of energy from the mage, and his fist…

Oh, that was right, Hawke thought dimly. Fenris could do interesting things when he was angry.

Ripping the mage's heart out of his chest, Fenris turned his full focus back to the rage demon. A few precise slashes brought the demon down, and Fenris stood among the smoking remains, the glow starting to fade from his skin. His eyes caught Hawke's, and she tried to go to him. She tried… but blue faded into darkness.

...

When Hawke next awoke, she was similarly disoriented by magic. This magic was healing, and for one moment her mind flickered to Anders. This magic was different, though, lighter.

"Welcome back, Viscount," a woman said, her tone pleasant. Hawke opened her eyes, and was relieved by how quickly they focused. "Please stay still just another moment. I'm almost finished healing you," the woman explained.

For once, Hawke didn't argue. She wasn't tied up. Her head didn't hurt. Things already seemed better than the last time she woke up. There was a warm, soothing hand on her forehead that must have been the healer's. Suddenly, the hand was removed, and the woman looked down at her. "There. All better?"

Hawke sat up, no pain, no haze. "Yes, thank you."

The woman beamed. "I'm happy to help."

Hawke looked around the small room, noting a few cots and chairs. One chair was occupied by a very bored-looking Templar. Standing against the wall beside him, arms crossed, face stern, was Fenris. The chest plates of his armor were scorched and dented, and one of his greaves nearly melted to slag. Ah, the joys of rage demons. Undoubtedly Fenris was burned in the process.

"Are you injured?" Hawke asked him. He merely glared at her, so Hawke turned to the healer.

"Have you healed him?" Hawke asked her.

She shook her head. "Not yet. Despite outward appearances, Viscount, your injuries were far more grave. Also… he... seemed reluctant…"

Hawke could imagine that reluctant was a euphemism for growling, cursing, and glowing.

"Fenris, don't be…" Hawke began with exasperation, but there was a flash of something in his eyes that stopped her. Was he really so apprehensive? Even though this mage was clearly just a healer? Even though a Templar was monitoring her every move? Or was it that his markings hurt him? It didn't matter. She assumed he'd dealt with enough that evening already. She couldn't, or wouldn't, make him play nice with mages.

Hawke sighed, turning back to the healer. "If you could do it without…" Hawke began quietly.

The mage quickly caught her drift. "Yes, I learned some battlefield techniques, though it will be slower."

"That's fine," Hawke replied, watching the tension in Fenris's shoulders ease just a touch.

The healer folded her hands and exhaled slowly, filling the room with the familiar soft magic of passive healing. "You are kinder than I thought you'd be," the mage admitted.

"Me?" Hawke didn't understand.

"I read the book about your adventures," the woman explained, "and I heard of the events in Kirkwall. I always pictured you to be so cold and stern. Then, I saw you in passing yesterday, talking with your guards. Whatever you said made them laugh. Now, actually meeting you, it's not hard for me to sense what kind of person you truly are."

Hawke diverted her gaze to a spot on the wall. "That… The author took liberties."

The woman smiled. "Of course, and I don't mean to intrude, just… I know there are diplomatic discussions going on. I know things are balancing on a knife's edge for mages right now. I know so many feel wronged, and some will lash out like the one who attacked you. But, some of us have found peace. Some of us…" Hawke noted the way the mage's eyes flicked towards the Templar. "Some of us have even found love in unexpected places." The Templar looked away, trying to hide a faint but unmistakable blush.

"It gives me hope now, to know that your voice is part of those discussions," the healer explained.

Hawke nodded, 'Thank you… I try…"

After a few quiet moments, Hawke watched Fenris test his burned leg, flexing it at the knee. He looked to the healer, muttered a barely audible thank you, and turned to leave.

"Yes, thank you," Hawke told her, following after Fenris.

...

Fenris was thankful that Hawke didn't speak as they walked back to their suite, that she didn't object as he walked into his room and shut the door behind him. He was thankful because he felt sure that if he said anything to her at all, he would say too much. Everything about the past few hours had been too much, too painful.

Superficially, his markings burned. He hadn't gone into battle like that since the Rebellion. Yes, he still worked as a mercenary to put food on the table, but he'd stuck to simple jobs where the intimidation factor of a branded elf with a big sword did most of the work. He'd done nothing like the death-defying nonsense Hawke seemed to always get into. No, he had been trying not to step on a powder keg in the powder keg factory that was Kirkwall. Today, however, required him to fight near his limit. After using the lyrium markings like that, no healer but time would quell the pain.

There was also the pain of the intertwined guilt and fear that filled his mind. Denerim wasn't Kirkwall. It seemed more stable, better organized, better patrolled. He wore his armor and carried his sword, but he also let a bit of complacency creep in. Two guards and her own blades seemed like enough to keep Hawke safe, but he had been wrong and Hawke could have died.

Hawke could have died.

That was the thought that shifted the guilt into fear. The fear hadn't ended when he found Hawke, because there was the rage demon to kill. The fear hadn't ended when he killed the demon because Hawke had collapsed. The fear hadn't ended when he carried her to the healer because apparently the inside of Hawke's head was broken… and he hadn't understood the healer's explanation… and the healer was a mage… No, the fear only ended when Hawke finally sat up and looked at him.

After all that, the pain, the fear, and the exhaustion of coming down off of that much adrenaline, Fenris had not been able to tolerate a mage. Even though he knew he needed healing and the mage had just saved Hawke, he couldn't. He was thankful that Hawke had found a compromise, and he would thank her in the morning. Right now, though, he was so drained and just relieved Hawke was alive, he knew any conversation with her would snowball into declarations of love that he didn't want to happen like this. No, he just needed to sleep.

Fenris took off his armor, resisting the habitual impulse to clean it immediately. It was not the high-quality armor he had lost in the shipwreck. It was also so badly damaged, he would likely need to replace it. What he couldn't resist, however, was the need to wash the smell of that battle off of himself. It was a sickening mixture of blood, burned leather, burned cloth, burned everything, and magic. Yes, he swore he could smell the blood magic. He cleaned himself up and changed his clothes, dropping down onto the bed with a sigh. Even with the burn of the lyrium, Fenris was too tired to resist sleep for more than a moment.