Chapter 3: A Heart for Every Fate

Everything was falling apart; the very bones were beginning to show in their little fellowship.

Aveline had been the first to leave, though not without wrestling with her conscience beforehand. It had begun with Knight-Captain Cullen letting it be known that he was willing to offer her amnesty. She would not be judged guilty by association alone and her long and faithful service to Kirkwall awarded her at least as much. She would have to quit the guard, of course, but she could come home. In the end, Hawke had stepped in and made it quite clear he appreciated Aveline's loyalty to him, but he'd very much prefer her loyalty to Donnic and the people of Kirkwall. A place that needed a voice of reason more than anything and Aveline's level-headedness would help do something good.

Varric had eventually joined her on the journey back. He was a child of the big city, he couldn't stay away forever and Hawke would never ask him. They had had letters from him since and somehow, the dwarf had wriggled himself back into Kirkwall's good graces. He helped them, too, in this way.

The next to go would be Isabela. The sea was calling and hiding didn't agree with her. Every day she spent more and more time drinking in that filthy dockside tavern of hers, only to be grumpy and hungover whenever she came in at all.

Merrill had ran with Hawke because she was Dalish. Because the thought of being set adrift all alone in the world was unbearable to her. With the death of Marethari, she had lost what tenuous connection she still had with her clan. Varric and his contacts was one thing, Aveline as a respected member of Kirkwall's backbone was another, but no one cared about an elf — and a blood mage apostate. There was no going back for her, no going home.

She hated living in the alienage in Val Royeaux. It was too packed, too dark and with too many people. She was wilting, as Varric had once said. It was painful to watch, but how could she be saved? Moreover, Merrill had set herself up for her own doom. She did not deserve to fall because of what Anders had done, but her ultimate doom would be unavoidable.

Anders did not know what was keeping Fenris and he had no right to ask him such a question. If he had to guess he would say that for all his talk of slavery, Fenris needed someone to follow. It was only a question of time until he realised that Sebastian in Starkhaven was a leader, too, and one whose opinions agreed with him far better than Hawke's did.

In the end, there would only be Hawke left. Hawke and Anders and madness.

Even so, the tension was terrible, especially while Hawke was with Ophélie. Fenris and Merrill both worked at the young baroness' townhouse when they weren't guarding Anders in their hovel in the alienage.

The hours of the day dragged on under Fenris' hostile gaze or Merrill's worn cheerfulness. Isabela was hungover whenever she was there, monosyllabic and grumpy. At least she neither taunted him nor attempted to cheer him up. They hadn't been in Val Royeaux for more than two weeks, but it felt like a syrupy eternity. It was nearly unbearable, but he could not think of a way out, an escape, for any of them.

Hawke believed in the flimsy promise Zevran had made, or at least Hawke had somehow convinced himself he believed in it. The promise of a future in safety, perhaps even a cure for Anders' deteriorating mind, all of it, based on nothing more substantial than the words of a former Crow assassin. You could built on sand, but you shouldn't expect your foundations to hold.

When Merrill returned in the evening, Anders said, "Where is Hawke?" before he could stop himself. He hated the sound of his own voice, the jealousy eating at him and the way he had no right to justify it even before himself. He had no claims on Hawke and no right to demand any sort of fidelity.

"Taking Lady Ophélie to a masked ball," Merrill explained. She rummaged in the larder, scrunching up her nose. "You could at least have started making dinner," she said. "I'm not your cook."

"A ball?" Anders asked. He clenched his teeth before he said anymore and pushing wild fantasies from his mind with all his might.

"I hear these are popular in Orlais," Fenris said drily as he got to his feet and pulled on his coat. "Perhaps they'll even dance."

Anders let his head fall back against the wall and welcomed the faint, dull pain it caused, distracting him for just a moment. "Taunt me all you wish," he said. "I'm an easy target."

"You have only yourself to blame."

Merrill had pulled vegetables out and had begun chopping them on the table, ignoring the exchange, but now she looked up, narrowed her large eyes at Fenris. "Where are you going?" she asked, sounding alarmed.

"Since you are here, I'm sleeping elsewhere tonight," Fenris grated. "I'm not spending the night with a blood mage and an abomination."

"You can't go out there armed like that," Merrill pointed out. "It's forbidden in the alienage. You'll attract attention."

"I'm not going out there unarmed," Fenris pointed out.

"Maker's breath," Anders grunted. "Just conceal it. It's not that difficult."

Fenris tensed and seemed about to twist around and strike, whether he would have gone for Merrill or Anders was hard to tell. Instead, he merely turned his head to give them both a cold glare. His broadsword was far too large to conceal, he had left it behind when going out before, but now he had it strapped to his back. What if this was the actual moment Fenris left? What better time to go than when Hawke was occupied. Fenris wouldn't have to tell him anything, or even say good-bye.

Fenris stood stiffly, looming in the tiny room.

Anders felt Merrill's gaze unexpectedly come to rest on him and was surprised to find she was looking at him, as if he still could somehow be a guide for the right course of actions. He would never understand the girl, as long as he lived. Truly.

"Why don't you take the other sword?" Merrill asked. "Like you usually do?"

"Because he doesn't plan to come back," Anders answered. "Isn't that right, Fenris?"

Fenris turned around. "I owe you nothing," he pointed out.

It was true, of course, but still Fenris abruptly broke into motion again, loosened the straps of the sword and leaned it against the wall by the door and picked up the smaller blade from its place. Strapped to his hip, the cloak hid the weapon well enough. His shoulders gave away his tension as he reached for the door without deigning either of the others with another look.

With his back to them, he said, "But I have you know, you are wrong."

He pulled the door open with more force than necessary, the lyrium tattoos flaring up for a moment in a dull glow through his clothing. The dry wood protested and the hinges shivered around their nails. Fenris would have rushed out with the same momentum and slammed the door closed behind him, but he stopped again in the doorway, his posture turned from merely tense into wary and ready to spring.

Both Merrill and Anders were alert immediately. Merrill put the kitchen knife down and Anders felt it as she began to pull on her power. It made him sick every time, closed his throat down at the vile taste of her magic, but it was instinct in the same way he himself was reaching for his inner reserves of willpower. He struggled to his feet and wondered how they could even hope to fight in a such a confined space.

"What a welcome," Isabela observed, stepping to the doorway.

"I was just leaving," Fenris pointed out. They faced each other in the doorway for a moment, then Fenris relented and stepped back, allowing Isabela to enter the room, revealing the man behind her.

Anders had time to sense the cautious incomprehension in Fenris and Merrill, he even had time to recognise Kameron Amell and to form the thought that would have identified him as an ally, but his senses were overwhelmed. Merrill's blood magic was difficult to bear, but he was used to her presence and while there was no excuse for dealing with demons at all, Kameron carried his powers in a different way. With him, it wasn't just a faint scent, but an aura that was almost tangible as it surrounded him. Festering, unrepentant, so utterly beyond redemption he left Anders no choice at all.

Faintly, he heard Isabela's curse and saw Merrill move to interject him, but none of it mattered, because the power surged from beneath his feet and through his body, his fingers tingling with it before the lightning arched from his hands. It sizzled past Fenris and Isabela, Anders felt the resistance of their bodies but couldn't comprehend if he hurt them. The power smashed into Kameron's chest and threw him back.

Anders snapped his other arm up, tiny sparks already jumping between his fingers, but something heavy suddenly pushed his arm down and the lightning discharged into the ground, blackening the floorboards.

Someone yelled in his ear. Others were yelling somewhere further off. Enemies. He was surrounded by enemies.

He hit the wall, hard, and his vision skittered away.

"Control it!" someone yelled close by. "Anders!"

Hands closed on his shoulders and pushed him down. Breath that smelled of rum and callused palms, familiar at least. Yes, control. Anders went limp, while the thoughts in his mind coursed in hopeless chaos, as he struggled to find that sense of self to cling to. The hands holding him down slowly let go, careful in case his compliance was but a passing moment.

"What a welcome indeed."

Anders concentrated on breathing. Isabela drew back from him, but stayed close, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Warn a girl next time," she said, patting Anders' knee.

"…sorry," Anders said past clenched teeth. He cracked his eyes open again and surveyed the room.

Fenris had pulled the door closed and was leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest while Merrill stood like a guardian stone on the other side of Anders by the bed. Only Kameron seemed unperturbed as he stood in the centre of the room. A tiny line of smoke curled up from the ground beside his boot where Anders' second lightning had failed. Kameron's shirt showed a prominent black stain on the centre of his chest and part of the fabric had burned away to the fine chain-mail beneath. It must be enchanted, because even Kameron wouldn't have been able to shield himself this quickly.

Kameron turned a little on his heel, inclining his head towards Merrill and Fenris.

"I'm Kameron Amell," he introduced himself. "I'm afraid I'm the one responsible for putting you in this place."

"That credit goes to Anders," Fenris said, saying the name as if it was a curse.

"For once, your hatred is misplaced," Anders said, staring at Kameron. "He is a better target." Anders pushed his chin forward and bared his teeth in what would have been a snarl if he hadn't felt bone-weary. "You are a blood mage."

Kameron flexed the fingers on his left hand, just enough for the light to catch the metal claw on his little finger. Anders had rarely seen such rings. There had been a few in display cases in the Tower, but no one outside of Tevinter would flaunt their blood magic in this way.

Kameron said, "Indeed I am. And it didn't matter to you when we were in Amaranthine. It didn't matter to Justice, either. You do remember that, do you?"

"Things changed," Anders grated. His head hurt. He didn't know if it was from hitting the wall or from forcing down Justice's influence like this. He didn't want to fight this. Everything about Kameron was wrong. He was anathema to everything… to everything… he had… ever… believed…? But that was untrue, wasn't it? It hadn't mattered those years ago, had it?

"Another one," Fenris said. "You crawl out of every hole, it seems."

Kameron turned to face Fenris fully and held the silence between them.

"I'm much worse than you think," he said finally. "I recognise the markings you have. I studied the technique, but I didn't think I'd ever see it. Would you like to test it against the enchantment in my chain-mail?"

"Don't tempt me, mage."

Kameron spread out his arms in invitation. "I'm the teryn of Gwaren and a Grey Warden of the Fifth Blight. The dwarves call me Junyragal and the Dalish Mi'lin. I'm not just any mage, elf."

Fenris narrowed his eyes. "Your titles impress no one."

The bed heaved as Isabela shifted forward, ready to spring. "Boys," she said with tired humour. "I never thought I'd hear myself say that, but this really is not the time to figure out whose balls are bigger."

"I agree," Fenris said. He shook himself from the door and reached for the broadsword again. He didn't strap it to his back, however, only kept it in his hand. It just might pass, in the darkness of the alienage if he kept it close to his body and under the cloak.

Fenris movements were jerkier than they had been before, tension pulled nearly to the breaking point. He tore the door open again and fled into the night without another word. The door bounced against the frame, pulled askew from its rusty hinges.

"Can we just let him go like that?" Kameron asked.

"He won't bring the Templars down on us," Merrill said as she leaned with her weight to the door to make it snap closed. "At least, I don't think he will."

Kameron hesitated. He had not moved at all, simply stood in the gloomy room, filling the centre with the dull silver of the chain-mail and expensive velvet of his coat.

"He won't be back," Anders pointed out. He tried breathing through his mouth, but of course that didn't help. You couldn't smell blood magic, it was just a metaphor, a subconscious translation of sensing something revolting. He fixed his gaze on Kameron. "A Grey Warden of the Fifth Blight?" he asked.

Kameron smiled a little and the mood shifted under the change. Merrill returned to her work of chopping vegetable, but it didn't escape Anders that her attention remained elsewhere.

"The Wardens have politely asked I resign as Commander of the Grey," Kameron explained. "They weren't pleased about the Architect. Which, incidentally, is also why I couldn't interfere on your behalf. I didn't find out they'd driven you away until it was far too late."

Anders let his head fall to the wall again. "So at least once you had to answer for what you did."

Isabela put her elbow into Anders' side, although not hard enough to hurt. "He's here to help," she pointed out.

"You've shown your gratitude already, so why should I?" Anders said and grimaced.

Isabela gave a dramatic sigh, though it sounded forced and annoyed. "You never play nice anymore," she complained.

While they talked, Kameron had taken off the coat and draped it carelessly across the bench by the table and set down beside it. He stretched out his legs and leaned back with his arms on the table, arrogantly relaxed despite the hostility that had greeted him. He regarded Anders and Isabela for a long moment, but than looked at Merrill.

"You are a mage?" he asked.

Merrill, who had scarcely even been pretending to be dealing with the food, lowered the knife. "Yes, I am."

"What are your strengths?"

"I was First to the Keeper," she explained. "Marethari taught me almost everything I know." She hesitated, the expression on her face wavered between sadness and fond memories. "She was… not always a patient teacher, but I learned a lot."

"Keeper magic?" Kameron asked. "I have not much experience with that. Can you anchor a vision of the Fade with your magic?"

"It depends," Merrill said. "You'll have to show me, so I know what you need me to do."

Kameron looked back at Anders. "I want to try and separate my two old friends from each other."

Of course he would, Anders thought wearily. "It can't be done," he said, not expecting the remark to carry much weight. Zevran had told them this was what Kameron meant to do, why he was coming at all. Anders knew few mages as powerful as Kameron — his freedom to do as he pleased played a large role in it — but even he could not do the impossible. Spirit possession was final according to everything Anders had ever seen, even in Tevinter.

"It might be possible," Kameron pointed out mildly. "I have seen similar things before, though never in this extreme. I'll have to go into the Fade and talk to Justice directly."

"It won't work," Anders reiterated. He shook his head and made a limp, dismissive gesture with one hand. "But you'll have fun wallowing in your blood magic, playing with demons. I won't stop you."

Kameron looked back at Merrill. "You are willing to use Blood Magic? That changes things."

"It's just magic," Merrill said. "You have to be careful, but that's always true, anyway."

Anders sighed, "No one ever listens."

Ophélie let her glittering shawl slip from her shoulders as she stepped to the fireplace and stood facing the fire. She was small, but slender and was well aware that her dress would be rendered nearly invisible against the flames, drawing her shape in tantalising perfection.

Her handmaiden had left the carafe of red wine by the table beside the fireplace to allow the wine to warm. Ophélie reached for it now, held the heavy glass in her hand and considered doing something dramatic with it. Wryly, she decided she hadn't been long enough in Val Royeaux for such a crass display and instead poured herself a glass.

Turning back, she found that not only had Hawke paid no attention to her, he wasn't even in the room any longer. He had ditched his boots, one after the other, obviously while walking. His coat had slipped from a stool to the floor and the brocaded vest he had worn lay on the ground by the balcony door. She could just about make out his shape outside where he leaned on the balustrade and looked out over the garden and the city beyond.

As always, he had been an impeccable escort. Courteous in his manners, witty in his conversation and fluid in his dancing. There was no mistake at all in how he upheld his part of the deal. Zevran had been vague about what would be required of her, saying only she would need to offer Hawke and his elven companions positions in her house and in turn, Hawke would aid her in her attempts to reclaim her inheritance. Although, if she was honest with herself, at this point in time, she preferred keeping her townhouse here in Val Royeaux and Hawke by her side.

Because that was the point she had been struggling with, however much she would rather deny it, but she wanted to have him. Not just this playacting, flawless as it was.

She sauntered after him, cradling the cool glass on her cheek.

"I have been thinking," she said.

"Give yourself credit," he said lightly without looking at her. "It doesn't happen quite so rarely you need to mention it."

There were times, of course, when she didn't exactly need him to be witty. She usually let it pass. Nothing good would come of arguing. "I don't pretend I understand what is going on in your life."

He laughed. A deep, heartfelt laugh that somehow lacked even the faintest traces of humour. It stopped as abruptly as it had begun. "My Lady," Hawke said. "I don't pretend I understand what's going on in my life, either. Trust me, the novelty of that wears off."

"It's troubling you, is it not?" she asked.

He looked at her from the side. His hair had fallen loose from it's perfect curls and fell across one side of his face, giving him a dashing look. "Care to get to your point?" he asked, not unkindly, but his patience was notably growing thin. He rarely allowed her to see this side of him.

"You could abandon whatever it is you are doing and stay with me instead," she said. She had hoped to phrase it more carefully so he found less cause to reject her, but he hadn't given her that chance. She tried to cover for her blunder by putting her glass away and shifting to stand behind him. She was too small to make it a good fit, pressing against his back like this. She wrapped one arm around his waist and stroked the other down his chest until to where his careless undressing had exposed the edge of his hipbone.

She was delighted to find him leaning into her touch, but only for a moment. He caught her hand in a grip so light she barely felt it, just strong enough to pull her hand away from him. He was pinned between her and the balustrade so his body brushed hers as he turned. She managed to hold his gaze for no more than an instant, than he stepped to the side, outside her reach.

He gave a slanted smile. "I may have overdone the mousseux," he shrugged apologetically. "You will forgive me if I don't stay tonight and embarrass myself."

Ophélie let her hands fall by her side and didn't try to follow him inside. She watched as he picked up his vest and used the respite to chew on her lip and let her thoughts chase each other in her mind. She thought, There is no need to run, but she was certain such a remark would only make things worse.

Hawke was at his first boot when she heard the noise from the hallway, voices and heavy footsteps cresting up on her bedroom door. Ophélie pushed herself away from the balustrade and entered the room, coming to stand close to Hawke once again.

There was a slight knock on the door, but before she even had the time to take a breath, the door was pushed open. The first thing she saw was her femme de chambre and the tall elf Hawke had brought with him, both trying to pile through the door first. Behind them, a doorman and more servants were adding to the confusion.

Fenris eventually won and walked in. He wore a dusty, grey coat over once fine, but now shabby armour. He carried a large broadsword in one hand and thank the Maker he had kept it sheathed while forcing his way through her house.

"I'm so sorry!" the femme de chambre gushed, wavering between indignant anger and being cowed by the imposing elf. "Madame, I tried…!"

Irritated, Fenris fixed his eyes on Hawke. "We must talk," he said gravelly.

"This is outrageous!" the doorman snapped, finally wedging himself past the femme de chambre. He bent his head sharply at Ophélie. "Please forgive the intrusion, I'll deal with it."

He reached with his hand for Fenris.

"I wouldn't do that," Hawke said sharply and the doorman's hand stopped in midair. "Unless you've always wanted to be known as 'the one-armed doorman'."

The doorman hesitated. Hawke looked quite ridiculous with just one boot on, but the doorman seemed unwilling to cross him. The man looked from Fenris to Hawke and finally to Ophélie.

The baroness pulled an entirely unladylike grimace, but waved her hand. "It's all right. I'll be talking with all of you later. Leave us alone for now."

There was a long minute before anyone moved. The femme de chambre curtsied, made a hasty gesture with her hand at the doorway. The servants who had gathered outside shuffled around in the hallway, getting out of the way. The femme de chambre ushered the doorman through the door, mumbled another apology to her mistress and pulled the door closed quietly.

Fenris filled the ensuing silence with a glower. He said, "Hawke."

Ophélie almost jumped when she felt Hawke's hand wind around her shoulders, but the moment didn't last. "Would you leave us alone?" he asked, with so much charm in the request, the affront barely registered. "It's my bedroom!"

Hawke pushed her forward gently. "I'm sure that's someone's dirty fantasy," he remarked and steered her to the door. "Enjoy."

With any luck, at least the servants would have scattered by now and she would be spared the awkwardness of being thrown out of her own room. Hawke opened the door and manoeuvred her outside.

Hawke kept his hand on the handle for a long moment after closing it behind Ophélie. His expression darkened markedly as he stared at Fenris.

"Have a damn good reason for this," he said with an unspoken threat somewhere in the charged air between them.

Not for the first time, Fenris wondered what bound him to Hawke at all. Nothing about the man seemed to be making sense. In the beginning, he had put it down to half a lifetime of experience being purged from his memories. Perhaps, he had reasoned, Hawke wasn't so special, after all, perhaps Fenris had only forgotten about it. It would have made sense, but the longer he stayed in Kirkwall and followed Hawke on one insane adventure after another, he learned differently. Hawke was exceptional and although Fenris found himself disagreeing with so much of what the man thought and did, he still found himself pulled along and willingly pulled along.

Fenris regarded Hawke, took in his state of undress and the disheveled hair and some remnant glitter smeared on one cheekbone.

"This is beneath you," Fenris said.

It was the wrong thing to say, of course, for many reasons. Not least of all because it seemed to be the push Hawke needed to mask himself once again, to pull some kind of jaded casualness over his naked features. He pulled his eyebrows up. "Oh dear," he said. "And you trek all the way here just to save my virtue? Non-existent as it is? Now, the question is, do I feel honoured or offended?"

"I'm not joking," Fenris growled. "The abom…" he stopped and, out of respect for Hawke, corrected himself. "Anders is not worth your abasement"

"I'm leaning towards 'offended', you know," Hawke remarked. He shook his head and walked across the room to pick up his second boot. "Six years and you've learned nothing from Isabela about sex." He looked up at Fenris. "Unless you are, in fact, here for a different reason?"

It had always been difficult to keep anything from Hawke. Fenris closed his eyes for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Suddenly it became impossible to just stand there under Hawke's glittering gaze. It made him feel like a traitor, for being there, for thinking as he did. That Hawke had always accepted his views just made it worse.

Fenris twisted around, took a few long steps and squared his shoulders in an effort to unclench his muscles.

"Your relative has arrived," he said finally.

"The Hero?" Hawke asked and Fenris was unsure if there was irony in his tone or not.

Fenris twisted around again, faced Hawke. "I cannot stay here," he said, deciding to do away with any flowery words. They were both adults, they should be able to handle the bare truth. "Magic has brought us here and now magic is supposed to save us, I cannot believe that."

"He stepped on your toes, didn't he?" Hawke observed.

Fenris put his head back as if stung. "Yes, belittle me all you like," he snapped. "It's not as if we are friends or anything!"

"Friends? Don't be stupid," Hawke grinned. "We don't like each other. We are more like family."

Maybe that even made sense. Meeting Varania had given him nothing, no insight into what it meant to have a family. All he knew was that he wasn't Hawke's friend, but they were linked nonetheless.

"I need to get away," Fenris finally said and the words felt almost like a relief. "I can't look at … Anders one more night without strangling him and his self-pity. I can't look at Merrill and her naiveté and wonder when she'll transform and try to rip my heart out. This Hero, he is much worse than any abomination. I don't expect you to understand what I see when I look at him."

Hawke's face was serious again. He dropped the boot and walked to the table by the fireplace. He turned his back to Fenris as he pouted himself a glass of dark red wine. "I think I have some idea," he said, still with his back turned. It gave both of them some privacy of thought, freed them from having to control their expressions and from revealing too much of what neither wanted to show.

Fenris was almost certain that Hawke needed it more than he did, but he was grateful nonetheless. Relaxing a little, Fenris found a heavy desk to lean his hip against, watching Hawke's darkened shape in front of the dancing flames.

"It's hubris and hunger," Fenris said. "I've watched too much of that in Tevinter. It's ruthless, dangerous. It will destroy everything. I cannot watch it happen, not even for you."

Hawke chuckled lowly, but this time the sound was soft. "If I bared my soul to you," he said slowly, humour all turned inward and needle-thin. "Could you stop yourself from striking?"

And quite suddenly, not seeing Hawke's face made everything worse. How did you know if the man across the room was telling the truth? How could you assess him when the look of his eyes was given to the flames instead? Did you wait until the fire began to sizzle?

"Hawke…"

"I envy you," Hawke said.

"That's… not what expected," Fenris replied honestly. "Why?"

"Because you get to live without memories."

Fenris bared his teeth in a reaction that was pure instinct. He knew Hawke didn't mean it like this. He caught himself immediately, made sure his voice betrayed nothing of what he felt. He said, "That's not true. I remember pain."

A tiny shudder ran the length of Hawke's shoulders before he moved. He emptied the wine and left the empty glass on top of the fireplace. When he turned around, his face was blank but calm, controlled, even with a hint of humour in it.

"I can give you money," Hawke said. "If you want to leave, but beyond that, you know that's all I can do."

"I don't need money," Fenris said, harsher than he had meant to.

Hawke tilted his head and something merciless was in his gaze. "I can't absolve you, that's not my job. Make your choices and stand by them, that's all I'll ask."

"Like you chose to stand with Anders?"

Hawke made no answer as his jaw tightened. "How much more should I lose until it's enough?"

He gave Fenris no time to answer, cut him off with a quick, dismissive gesture with one hand. "Forget I said that," he said, visibly pulling himself together. "Although it's good to know you've got a bite inhibition there."

Despite himself, Fenris had to laugh, though his throat felt parched. "Only among family," he said.

Hawke's smile, this time, almost reached his eyes. "Are you sure you don't want the money? It's not like it wouldn't come out of Ophélie's purse and she gets off cheap anyway."

Fenris nodded slowly. "I'll take it, then" he said, fixed Hawke. "But I'll pay you back."

He didn't need to burn all the bridges with Hawke, Anders wasn't worth it. As long as a debt stood between them Fenris could always find an excuse to come back, an excuse to let the connection not frazzle and fade with time. Wounds would heal with time, or so Fenris hoped. He wasn't sure if he believed it, but he knew he wanted to. Maybe it was enough, just this once.

"I thank you," Fenris said, more like an afterthought, for not prying, for not arguing and most of all: For not making me say that aloud.

Poetry demanded that Fenris vanish into the darkness of the empty street. But the streetlamps were brightly lit and although it was late, people were still about; going to or returning from some feast. Musicians still occupied some corners and the food stalls were still busy selling their wares to passerbys. Others were keeping to the shadows, edging along the tall walls of mansion and following their own clandestine goals.

Fenris felt severed. Alone. More alone than he had ever been. He had forgotten how to handle it in his years in Kirkwall. It was time he learned it again.

Poetry demanded that all farewells be sudden.

References/Translations

"a heart for every fate" — To Thomas Moore, Lord Byron

"a farewells should be sudden" — Sardanapalus, Lord Byron

"mousseux" — (french) sparkling wine

"femme de chambre" — (french) handmaiden (note: I'm not entirely sure this is the correct position. Translations are all over the place for this one. A femme de chambre is of lower rank than a lady-in-waiting, but above the position as a lady's maid)

"Junyragal" — Kingmaker (constructed using set-pieces from different franchises. 'Jun' means 'King' in the Dragon Tongue of Skyrim; 'yr' is taken from DAO's 'deshyr' and '-ag' and '-al' are taken from Tolkien)

"Mi'lin" — 'Blood Blade' in Elvish

Thank you for reading!