Strong language in this chapter.

~o~O~o~

The following morning, Anders and Varric were already at The Hanged Man when a rather subdued Hawke arrived with Bethany. Anders failed to notice their entrance at first, as Isabela had also joined him and Varric, and sat on their table with her legs dangling over the edge; Anders didn't quite know which part of her to look at first, but didn't look away, either.

Hawke was startled at the loud wolf-whistle that greeted him, and glowered at the three people at the table, all of whom assumed an innocent look.

Anders burst out laughing as soon as he caught sight of his scowling friend. "Blimey, Hawke, where did those come from? They look like they're from the Blessed Age!"

"They're Gamlen's," answered Bethany, failing to keep a straight face.

Hawke gave her a severe look, which only succeeded in making her giggle. "Look; I don't own any trousers of my own, all right? I'm not used to wearing them." He grabbed his waistband and twisted the trousers from one side to the other, his face reddening in frustration. "How can people wear these bloody things…?"

"They're a bad example of trousers, sweetheart," drawled Isabela, her eyes roaming to Hawke's crotch. "The cut's all wrong. Those trousers don't leave any room for genitalia, male or female."

Hawke ceased struggling with his trousers and looked up at her. "I'm sorry; who are you, again?"

"Isabela, remember?" prompted Varric. "Don't mind him, Isabela; he's not a morning person."

Isabela looked Hawke up and down approvingly. "So, you're a night person, then?" she asked with a wink.

Anders sniggered from beside her. "Sorry, love, you're barking up the wrong tree, there."

"Oh? And which tree should I be barking up, then?"

"Well, the only people he likes barking up his tree have deeper voices and a lot more body hair than I'm guessing you do, Isabela."

"Oh, bugger. Now you bloody tell me!" She pouted dramatically, her eyes moving over to Varric. "No matter; there are plenty more fish in the sea," she said with a waggle of her eyebrows.

Varric laughed and shook his head as Bethany took a step forward, folding her arms. "Ah," said Isabela. "I get it. Well, how about our handsome mage here, then?" she asked, running her fingers through Anders's hair.

Anders giggled, and then his face dropped like a stone. "Hey! Why am I last choice?"

"Oh, you're not, Sweetcakes. I just assumed that some lucky lady, or man," she said with a sly glance at Hawke, "would already have snapped you up by now."

"Something we can help you with, Isabela?" Hawke cut in.

"Actually, there is," she replied jauntily, and slid off the table. "I've already explained it to Varric, but I'll say it again. Some men are after me."

Bethany snorted. "Seems it's the other way round, to me."

Isabela laughed, completely unfazed by the comment. "Cute. Anyway, they think I have something that I don't, and, well, they're starting to become rather tiresome. I could do with some help, and I've heard that you and your little gang like to help people out," she said to Hawke.

"We do," he answered, "but we also like to get paid."

"Oh, you'll be paid, all right, once these bastards are off my back. The ringleader's a bloke named Hayder. We've arranged to meet tonight in the chantry to…'thrash things out', but I have a feeling he'll play dirty, and will bring a few of his friends along. Well, a lot of them, actually."

"All right," agreed Hawke with a nod. "Anybody have plans tonight?"

"Not me, Hawke; I'm in," said Anders.

"Count me in, too," Varric called.

"Bethany?" asked Hawke, and she nodded.

Isabella grinned and breathed a sigh of relief. "Two mages and a dwarf with a mighty weapon," she smirked, and then glanced at Hawke. "And what do you fight with, sailor? Although…those trousers of yours look pretty dangerous."

"I'm a mage, as well," Hawke grumped. "I usually carry a staff, but I don't…"

"I bet you do," replied Isabela.

Hawke wrinkled his nose and distractedly scratched his cheek. He was not used to being flirted with by women, particularly those who knew he didn't actually go for women. "Is, erm…Fenris here?" he asked, looking around the lounge.

"Hasn't shown up," Anders told him with a raised eyebrow. "I daresay he took umbrage at being overruled by a mage."

"Who's Fenris?" Isabela asked.

"He's an elf with a chip on his shoulder to rival his sword," Anders answered.

Isabela's eyes lit up. "Ooh…I like elves."

"Of course you do," said Bethany tartly.

Hawke didn't hear the rest of the conversation, his eyes fixed on the entrance to the pub. Where was Fenris? Was Anders right? Had he taken offence at being disagreed with, or was his absence to do with what had happened afterwards?

"So, Hawke, what's on the agenda for the rest of the day?" Varric asked, interrupting his thoughts. "You and I are headed for The Gallows, which explains those…interesting pants, but what are Blondie and Sunshine going to do with themselves?"

"I can't tell them what to do, Varric," he mumbled absent-mindedly.

"Actually," Anders piped up, "I thought I could pop over to the alienage to let Feynriel's mother know where he is. Fancy tagging along, Bethany?"

"Yes, I'd like that."

Hawke turned towards Bethany and addressed her, but kept Anders within his line of sight. "Actually…you could check on Merrill while you're there, see if she fancies doing anything with us."

"Oh, that's a good idea, Brother!" she replied with enthusiasm, and Hawke grinned at her, well aware that Anders was staring daggers at him.

"Well, maybe you could do that, Sister, while Anders talks to the boy's mother?" As Bethany nodded, he noticed Anders' posture relax a little.

"And what am I supposed to do with myself?" Isabela demanded, hands on hips.

"Erm…whatever you usually do?" replied Hawke.

"The Gallows, eh?" she said to herself. "All those big men in shiny armour…well, it'd be a lot better than looking at the shower that usually drinks in here. I'm in!"

"Erm, that's really not necessary, Isabela, but thank you for the offer," Hawke began.

"Oh, you're no fun," she teased with a wave of her hand. "Well, where did the rest of you say you were going?"

"Tell you what, why don't you go along with Anders and Bethany?" Hawke suggested, and felt a dig in his ribs from his sister. He leaned towards her and whispered, "I think she's going to come with one of us, whether we like it or not. Either she goes with you, or she goes with me and Varric. Make your choice, Sister."

"What a good idea!" Bethany said stiffly.

"I feel so welcome!" Isabela laughed, tossing her hair behind her shoulders. "Well, when do we go?"

As the others talked, Hawke walked over to Varric and leaned against the table, bending to Varric's height. "I, erm, have something to do before we go to The Gallows," he mumbled quietly. "Can you wait a while?"

"Sure, Hawke; there are a few things I could take care of here. Going anywhere exciting?"

"No, not really," he answered evasively, and Varric knew better than to question him further. "See you all later," he announced in a louder voice, and headed for the door, his friends' goodbyes following him.

~o~O~o~

Hawke stared up at the windows of Danarius's mansion and grasped the back of his neck as he hesitated by the entrance. He wasn't quite sure why he was here; he was almost certain that he would not be welcomed by Fenris, and that any attempt at conversation would be met with hostility.

Somehow, though, he felt the need to apologise to Fenris. Not for overhearing his dream, nor for disagreeing with him over Feynriel. No, it was something more than that, but of course he could never make that apology, as Fenris had never been involved in that. Despite that, he still felt he had wronged Fenris, and wanted to make things right, but how? How could he ever make things right when the person he'd originally wronged was dead?

Hawke's nervous spells over the past few days had started to manifest themselves physically. He'd had loose bowels earlier that morning and his shoulders and neck hurt from the tension he carried around in them. His stomach, which had been tied in knots since the previous morning, now actually hurt, and he rubbed his tummy, as if that would actually help. As he raised his fist to the door, he felt the beginnings of a headache for the third day in a row.

He knew he did himself no favours: he was irritable and tetchy and probably appeared to be quite moody to those who didn't know him well; the reason for his moods, however, was that he felt horrible guilt when he snapped at people and so did his best to push his sourness aside, at least for a short time.

He was capable of being light-hearted and playful, but only once he'd got a few drinks under his belt. He was grateful that he wasn't an aggressive drunk, at least. He knew he drank too much, but the only reason he didn't drink more was for his mother and Bethany's sake. He couldn't remember his first three or four weeks in Kirkwall, as he'd spent most of it in a drunken stupor, until the day he'd overheard his mother and sister weeping over Carver and out of concern for him. That was when he finally realised that he was not the only one suffering, and had made a concerted effort to be more supportive of his family.

And, although he now managed to haul himself out of bed in the mornings, to bathe and remember to eat properly, most of the time he still felt his life wasn't real, that it was being lived through someone else, and that he was just a vaguely interested observer.

He rapped firmly against the door, part of him hoping that Fenris wouldn't hear, or that he was not at home. He had no idea of what he was going to say to him. He wanted to check that Fenris was well, of course, but he didn't think that sentiment would be appreciated, and had tried to think up an excuse for being there, coming up with absolutely nothing.

After waiting for a while, he knocked again. After several minutes, there was still no answer, and he decided to give the servant's bell pull a try; he pulled on the rope and could hear a faint ringing from within the house.

Still no answer came. He meshed his hands together behind his neck and briefly considered throwing a stone up at one of windows, before deciding against it. He then wondered if Fenris was still barricading the door from the inside as Hawke had advised him to do; Varric hadn't yet had a chance to take a look at the lock.

He tried the handle, and, sure enough, the door opened. Hawke tutted and shook his head, annoyed that Fenris wasn't taking proper care over his safety, but he was glad to have gained entry. He closed the door and stood in the vestibule. The mansion was in almost complete darkness: the heavy drapes that hung over the huge windows were all pulled closed, with only the odd chink of light seeping through where some of them hadn't quite been closed properly.

"Fenris?" he called out, his voice quieter than he'd intended. He cleared his throat and called again.

There was no answer.

Sighing, he began to climb the left-hand set of stairs and headed for the back room where Fenris had previously received him, finding the door closed. "Fenris?" he called again as he knocked on the door.

He grasped the handle and took a deep breath, but the air within the mansion was stale and dry, and he felt no benefit. He turned the handle and entered the room, immediately recoiling as the stench of cheap wine and vomit assaulted him.

"Shit!" He covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve and made his way over to the window, having remembered it was situated on the right side of the room, and threw open the drapes, choking as a cloud of dust exploded from them. Pushing the window up, he leaned against the window sill for a moment, gasping for fresh air.

"Fenris, are you…bollocks!" As Hawke turned around, he spotted Fenris's pale, limp form, still fully clad in his armour, half-hanging off the settee upon which he'd passed out. Half a dozen empty wine bottles, two of them smashed, and several pools of watery vomit surrounded his sleeping place.

Heedless of the vomit, Hawke strode over to the settee and yanked the unconscious Fenris up by his armpits, propping him up into a sitting position; the elf's head flopped back and his limp body slumped. Hawke sat down next to him and unslung his water skin from over his shoulder, removing the stopper, and, with his other hand, grabbed the back of Fenris's head.

"Fenris!" he bellowed. "Wake up!"

Fenris's head jerked and he uttered something incomprehensible. "Well, at least you're alive," said Hawke, placing his water skin next to Fenris's mouth. "Drink this," he ordered.

"Futue te ipsum!" The water skin was sent flying to the floor as Fenris swatted it away, landing in a puddle of vomit. Hawke scrambled to retrieve it before the contents were spilled. When he returned to the settee, Fenris's eyes were rolling in his head as he gave his best approximation of a fierce scowl.

"You stubborn bastard," Hawke muttered and once again sat next to Fenris, grabbing the back of the elf's head and shoving the water skin against his mouth. Having found his strength, however, Fenris fought back, and started grabbing at Hawke's arms, his spiked gauntlets puncturing Hawke's flesh.

"Ah…Agghhh!" Hawke yelled in pain, and violently yanked Fenris's head back, pouring the water down his throat. "Drink it, you cunt!"

Fenris struggled and spat the water out, but Hawke persisted, and, after a minute, Fenris released Hawke's arms and grabbed the water skin with both hands, drinking greedily from it.

"Easy…go easy," counselled Hawke, who winced at the pain in his arms. They were bleeding heavily, and Hawke stood, preferring to be at a safe distance from Fenris when casting, and began to heal himself. "You bastard. That bloody hurt!"

Fenris let the now-empty water skin fall to the floor and he slouched in the chair, a deep, rasping laugh rumbling through him as he sneered at Hawke through half-closed eyes.

"You're not a very nice person, you know that?" Hawke accused. Fenris's laughter halted.

"Neither are you," he answered.

"I won't argue with you there."

"What do you want?" Fenris asked irascibly.

"I came to see if you were all right, if you must know, and it's a good job I did. What are you trying to do, kill yourself? An elf can't take that much wine; I knew elves in Lothering, and one bottle would have put them on the floor!"

"You'd be surprised at what my body can take," slurred the elf, glancing at his lyrium-branded arms. "It took Danarius two days and two nights to burn the lyrium into my flesh, and the pain was indescribable. And yet I still live. I still live! Adhuc sto!" he proclaimed, before his eyes closed and his head slumped to one side.

"Yes, adhuc sto, whatever the hell that means," mumbled Hawke, rolling his eyes. "Fenris. Fenris!"

"Uh?"

"Is there any food in this house?"

Fenris sighed and slowly opened his eyes, as though it took all of his strength to do so. "There are biscuits."

"Biscuits? Is that what you've been living on?"

"I happen to like biscuits," growled Fenris.

Hawke laughed suddenly, partly out of relief that Fenris had enough strength to glare at him. "I'm going to the kitchen to see if there's any proper food still here. Where is it?" Hawke asked, still chuckling.

"Find it yourself," came the terse reply.

"Fine. Just stay there until I get back."

"I do not take orders from you!" Fenris roared, and then his body slumped once again, his strength finally depleted.

"All right, then; get up, slip on your own vomit and crack your head open. That would be a dignified way to go, wouldn't it?" answered Hawke, without malice, as he left the room.

Remembering the location of the scullery when they'd cleared the mansion of abominations, Hawke headed in that direction, and found the kitchen located not far from it. Within, he found several dried goods which were still safe to use, and decided that porridge was the safest bet. Although there was dried milk in the kitchen, as a healer, Hawke knew that milk would probably irritate Fenris's stomach, and so made it with water, adding a generous dollop of honey to sweeten it. He also made a cup of sweet tea, without milk, and placed everything on a tray which he carried up to Fenris's room.

Fenris, who was now awake but still slumped on the settee, watched Hawke curiously as he entered and placed the tray on the small table next to the window.

"Porridge," Hawked explained, and walked over to Fenris, offering his hand.

"I do not need your help," Fenris grumbled, pulling his arms against his chest.

"Go on then, get up by yourself."

"I am not hungry."

"If you don't sit at that table and eat, I'll pour it down your throat, just like I did with the water," threatened Hawke.

Fenris's nose wrinkled and his lip curled into a sneer. "Who do you think you are?"

Hawke shrugged. "I don't think I'm anybody." He gestured towards the table. "Come on; it'll get cold."

Fenris glanced warily at him, and then towards the table. Upon spotting the steaming bowl, his stomach growled loudly.

"You are hungry, you bloody liar!" laughed Hawke.

A sour-faced Fenris began to push himself up, and managed to stand, but as he did so he clutched at his head and grimaced.

"Fenris…this is just a suggestion, but I could cast a spell that would make you feel more alert."

"No!" barked Fenris, and then his shoulders slumped and he closed his eyes, quickly opening them, and he blinked several times, holding his hands out in front of him.

"Dizzy?" asked Hawke, and he held his arm out in front of the elf. "The table's just a few steps away. You can hold my arm, if you want to."

Fenris looked at Hawke's arm, and then Hawke's face. "No, I can manage," he said quietly, and slowly walked over to the table with admirable dignity. Hawke pulled the chair out and Fenris gave him a wary glance before taking a seat. "Why are you…?" he began, and then sighed.

"Just eat up," Hawke instructed. "I'll be back in a minute."

Hawke left the room and returned a short time later carrying two wooden pails, with a scrubbing brush and a bar of lye soap under each arm.

"Have you eaten that porridge yet?" he asked sternly. Fenris showed him the empty bowl, which had been licked clean.

"I see you like porridge as well as biscuits," said Hawke, smiling, as he placed the pails on the floor.

"It is similar to gruel, but is much more…palatable."

"Gruel?" Hawke exclaimed. "Bloody hell. Was that…" He paused, unsure whether it would be wise to probe Fenris about his past. "I've been told I make pretty decent porridge. It's even nicer with milk." He picked up one of the pails and threw the hot water within onto the floor.

"What are you doing?" asked Fenris.

"This room will stink if this sick isn't cleaned up," he explained as he rolled up his sleeves, got onto all fours and began scrubbing.

"You…you do not need to do that," said Fenris. "That is a servant's work."

"Look," said Hawke, glancing up. "I grew up on a farm in Lothering: we didn't have servants, and everyone had to pull their weight."

"I-I should assist," Fenris said, pushing his chair back.

"Just stay where you are," ordered Hawke. "You barely have enough strength to hold yourself up. I'll have this done in a jiffy."

Fenris watched, feeling ashamed, as Hawke made short work of scrubbing the stone floor. Feeling uncomfortable with the silence, he tried to make conversation. "Was it…was it hard work on your farm?" he asked.

Hawke wiped the sweat from his brow and looked up. "Sometimes it was back-breaking, especially during the harvests. Father, Carver and I would be out in the fields from sunrise to sunset some days." He sat back on his knees and looked at the far wall for a moment. "I'd give anything to go back, though." He sighed and resumed his task.

"Carver is…your brother?" asked Fenris.

"Was."

"Oh. I did not mean to…"

"It's all right, Fenris. Do you have any family?" asked Hawke.

Fenris was silent for a moment, and Hawke heard a sigh. "I…do not know. I do not remember."

Hawke sat up again and watched Fenris, who had turned his back on him. "I remember you saying you'd lost your memory after getting the lyrium markings." Fenris nodded, but didn't speak. Hawke stood up and looked around the room. "Fenris, can I have that tapestry on the wall?" he asked.

Fenris turned around, puzzled. "Yes, if you wish."

"Thank you." Hawke pulled the tapestry from the wall and threw it onto the floor. He then knelt down again and began mopping up the soap and vomit. "So, erm…if you don't mind me asking, how long has it been since you remember anything?" he asked Fenris.

"My first memory is of receiving these markings," he answered. "That was three-and-a-half years ago."

Hawke halted and once again sat back on his heels. "You remember nothing else before that?"

"No."

"I'm…sorry, Fenris."

A heavy silence descended. Hawke finished mopping the floor and bundled the empty wine bottles in the tapestry, tying a knot in it. He then placed the makeshift sack outside the room, and threw the other pail of water over the floor. "It's a warm day," said Hawke. "This'll dry in no time." He took the empty pails and left the room again, returning ten minutes later to find Fenris on his feet, tidying the room.

"Here; I brought some biscuits up for you," said Hawke, placing them on the table.

Fenris looked at him with a puzzled expression. "Why…why are you doing this?"

"Why not?" asked Hawke, equally puzzled.

"I have done no service for you."

"Of course you have, Fenris; you've helped me out a few times."

"But you have paid me for that."

Hawke shrugged his shoulders. "Look, this is what friends do for each other; help each other out when they're in trouble."

"But…you are not my friend," answered Fenris.

"I'd like to be."

"Why?" Fenris asked suspiciously. "You already have friends."

"I could always use one more," replied Hawke. "And, I suspect, so could you."

"I have managed without friends thus far," Fenris said in a cold tone.

"Well, you must have been very lonely, then."

Having no answer to that, Fenris continued to busy himself with straightening the room out.

Hawke wrinkled his nose and sniffed at his shirt. "Great, now I smell of elf vomit."

Fenris cocked an eyebrow and glanced at him. "Elf vomit smells no worse than human vomit."

"Wanna bet?"

"I do not gamble," answered Fenris, and Hawke burst out laughing.

"I've got to go; Varric and I are going to The Gallows."

"The Gallows?" asked Fenris. "Is that not a risk for one such as yourself?"

"Why do you think I'm dressed like such a twat?"

"I am not familiar with that expression," said Fenris, and Hawke could have sworn that the edge of Fenris's mouth twitched slightly.

"Stick with us, and you'll hear it a lot. I call Anders a twat all the time. Anyway, I'd better get going. I'll be back later to check on you, and if I find you in the same state again, I'll be very cross."

"You-you do not need to check on me," Fenris said.

"I'm coming back," Hawke insisted. "Get some rest." He headed for the door.

"Hawke…"

"Yes, Fenris?"

Fenris walked over to him and stopped a few feet away. "Your…arms."

"What about them?"

"I-I did not mean...Are they…?"

"Right as rain. My healing spell's pretty good."

"You are a healing mage, then?"

"Yes, although Anders is a much better healer than me; he had the education I didn't. I get by, though."

"And your sister? What manner of mage is she?"

"Oh, she can do all the exciting stuff, like command the elements and all that. I can manage a bit of flame, but she's brilliant." He lowered his voice and whispered conspiratorially. "Between you and me, though, her healing's crap."

Fenris nodded, an expression on his face that Hawke hadn't seen before: almost a smile, but not quite.

"Well, I'll see you later. Answer this time when I knock, won't you?" Hawke exited the room and headed for the stairs.

"Yes, I will. Farewell."