I cannot thank my tireless beta-reader, and friend, Mary (Shakespira) enough for her help and hard work on this chapter. She really went above and beyond, and I am blessed to have her help and wisdom at my disposal.

Thanks also to Carina (the14th) for making me think, and for being so gracious, as well as Shini-neko-chan and Voice-of-the neurotic for your PMs and support.

~o~O~o~

Hawke and Fenris slowly pulled apart and stood together, still close but not touching, neither of them sure what to say. Fenris's mind raced as he desperately sought the appropriate words, anything to break the silence. Anything to break the push-and-pull, the dual repulsion and attraction he felt towards Hawke. Anything that would distract him from his ambivalence, his confusion, and the urgent need that surged up from his belly and flooded his chest.

If only he knew what that need was.

"I will fetch you a drink," Fenris offered again; it was the distraction he needed, an inconspicuous way to put space between them. He stepped further back, his eyes on the kitchen door. Escape. Solitude. Freedom. "Please sit down; you are clearly exhausted."

"All right, Fen. I'll do what you say," Hawke replied, his voice soft and quiet. He moved over to the settee, taking up his usual spot, leaving Fenris's preferred seat free.

"I will return shortly." Fenris quickly disappeared into the kitchen and leaned heavily against the counter, closing his eyes and releasing a long sigh. Opening them, he looked around the kitchen; it was large and cold, and he felt very small and lonely in there. Once again, a need, a compulsion, a longing, swelled within him and his eyes moved to the wall. On the other side of that wall Hawke sat on the settee they'd once slept upon, in front of a roaring fire. Warmth. Company. Safety.

What did he really want?

Fenris shook his head, annoyed at his weakness and vacillation, and filled the kettle, hanging it over the fire. After a brief search, he found the biscuit barrel, and paused when he saw several pieces of home-made shortbread within. Fletcher had taught him how to make shortbread. Fletcher was teaching him to read. Again, he glanced over at the wall as though he could see through it.

A blood mage was in the next room. Danarius and Hadriana were blood mages. Most of the Magisters of the Imperium, people he'd seen performing unspeakable acts in the pursuit of power, were blood mages. And yet, theblood mage in the next room liked shortbread. He cried. He was a dreadful worrier. He would do anything for his friends and family. His mother had made slippers for him. He'd gone out searching for Fenris despite being ill and so tired he was on the verge of collapse. He'd argued with his friend, Anders, while defending Fenris.

He'd told Anders he loved Fenris.

When Bethany had first told him of Fletcher's past, Fenris's suspicious nature, the side of him that always looked for deception, at first made him surmise that her story was fabricated, that she was making excuses for his status. After all, Fletcher was fiercely protective of his sister; surely she would also do anything for him?

And then, the guilt had surfaced. Bethany was a good person. How could Fenris think her capable of such trickery? Because Fenris was not a good person, that's how. He looked for lies and wrongdoing at every turn; even more so since he'd become involved with a group that mostly consisted of mages. But those mages, even Anders - whom Fenris disliked intensely - had not once displayed any evil or immoral leanings. Not once.

And, as Bethany had related Fletcher's past and the reasons for his treaty with a demon, Fenris had found the story becoming more and more plausible as she'd gone on. Had the story been about Danarius, Hadriana, or any of the other Magisters, he would have thought it ludicrous and unbelievable.

But applied to Fletcher? It not only seemed plausible; it made perfect sense.

The small group Hawke had assembled had encountered many bandits, mercenaries and other miscreants on their travels; some of their victories had been hard won, but not once had Fletcher used his powers. Even in the direst of circumstances he hadn't given into temptation. Fletcher did not seem the type to use blood magic just because he could, because it was easy to do so. Fletcher hadn't learned blood magic with the acquisition of power in mind.

Everything Fenris had ever held to be true about blood mages, everything he had once been absolutely certain of, and his beliefs - the only things that had been real and constant during his life of servitude – had been utterly demolished. How could he trust his own judgement? Who was right? Would anything ever make sense again? Would he ever regain that sense of knowing, of absolute certainty?

And Fenris had laid himself bare to Fletcher, had dared to trust him, and on two occasions (that he knew of) Fletcher had betrayed that trust, had kept things from him. Not minor things, but things that were of vital importance to Fenris.

In the deepest recesses of his heart, his mind, though, Fenris knew why Fletcher had not told him at first.

It should be so simple. Fenris should be able to look past the secrets, which, in comparison to everything Fletcher had done for Fenris, in comparison to how Fletcher made him feel, were minor. But, deep inside, there was a part of Fenris that still expected more betrayal, more lies, and more hurt.

And Fenris detested that part of himself. But it was as much a part of him as blood magic - and a demon - were a part of Fletcher. Fletcher, however, had been strong and had resisted using his powers, renouncing his relationship with his demon. Fenris believed that to be true. So why couldn't Fenris also be strong and renounce the part of himself he detested and which caused him, and others, such pain?

Would he ever be able to do that?

Gathering himself, he made the tea and took it through to the living room, but left the biscuits behind. Fletcher, understandably, was asleep, his hands folded in his lap, his head lolling to the side. Fenris set the tea down and stood watching him; for how long, he didn't know.

Fletcher's hair was, as usual, a mess; his robe was badly creased and his boots were scuffed and caked in mud. His mouth hung open, and, before long, drool started negotiating its way out of it. This time, there was no beard to stop its path, and Fenris had to bite back a snigger as the liquid began to pool on Fletcher's shoulder before sinking in, leaving a dark patch on his robe, which was quite a feat as it was black. One of Fletcher's legs twitched and he snorted, batted his nose with his hand and then slumped and started snoring.

Was this man evil, immoral, power-crazed?

Taking up his own cup of tea, Fenris sat upon the seat with the Fenris-shaped dent and sank back, watching the fire. And there he waited, as Fletcher had once waited with him back at the mansion.

~o~O~o~

"I don't expect you to understand, Justice. You don't understand me; that's as clear as day. What's also clear is that you've never made any attempt to understand me. Why should now be any different?"

"Your behaviour of late has been erratic and confounding. That is what I do not understand. What are your reasons? What drives you to conduct yourself in such a manner? Why did you abandon Hawke?"

"You know why!"

"Despite your explanation, I still do not understand how this motivates your actions. Hawke is not Ruben. You have not seen Ruben for many years. You should have reconciled his loss by now."

"Just because I haven't seen him for many years doesn't mean I don't still care about him! It doesn't mean I've forgotten him! That is the part I can't seem to make you understand! And I haven't lost him! As far as I know, he's still alive!"

"I do understand that mortals form bonds with one another, Anders. I feel what you feel; do you forget that? I feel the tightness in your stomach, the ache in your chest; I taste the salt in your tears as they trickle down your throat. I feel all of it. But I do not understand how Ruben is connected to Hawke."

"He reminds me of him! How many more times do I have to say it?"

"I see Ruben when you think of him. His physical appearance differs vastly from that of Hawke's."

"I mean his mannerisms, Justice! His sense of humour, the way he laughed…even-even his voice…"

"Anders…"

Anders dashed tears from his eyes and took a deep breath. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. It's bad enough that I think about him every time I see Hawke; I can't…I can't talk about him as well."

"How do you expect me to understand if you will not discuss your feelings? Remember, Anders, that upon completion of the Deep Roads expedition, Hawke will be working with us at the clinic. At that time, the first stage of our plan will commence. You must-"

"I don't want to hear any more about how strong I need to be, Justice! I know, all right? I bloody know! Just-just give me a bit of quiet time, eh? Please, Justice."

The spirit fell silent but the pounding in Anders's head did not cease. He leaned against a wall in his private room at the rear of the clinic and placed his hands over his face. For a moment he considered casting upon himself to relieve the pressure building inside his skull, but decided against it. He didn't want to feel better.

Why wouldn't Hawke listen to him? Why was he bent on harming himself, on pushing his body to its very limit? Why had he taken up with someone who hated everything he was and who treated him so badly?

Why couldn't Anders protect him? He couldn't face losing another-

"No. Hawke is not Ruben. He's not. Get that into your thick head, Anders!" He pushed away from the wall and went over to the small basin in the corner, splashing cool water over his face. He was glad that his squalid little den didn't contain a looking glass; he didn't much care to look at himself right now, or to see the emptiness, the hopelessness he felt reflected back in his eyes.

A patient. That's what he needed; someone he could care for, someone who would look at him with reverence and admiration, as many residents of the undercity did. Someone who would thank him, appreciate him.

And that was enough. The fact that most of those very same people never asked him how he was, how he paid for his supplies or if he needed any help was beside the point. He didn't need them to care about him. He didn't need them to love him.

Again, he gave silent thanks that there was no mirror in his private room, for if he glanced at himself in one now, he would also see the lies he continued to feed himself.

He towelled off his face and ventured up the stone steps to the main room of the clinic, hoping that someone up there would need his care; healing the sick filled the gaping hole in his soul, if only briefly.

Pushing open the door at the top of the steps, he started as he almost knocked Mallory over. She'd been standing very close to the door, and she jumped back, emitting a startled yelp as he emerged.

"A-Anders! Oh, I wasn't…I mean…I-I just…I heard voices. Raised voices. I didn't intend to listen, but I couldn't help it; I was worried. Are you all right?" There was caution in her voice and fear in her eyes, and she took a further step back as Anders took one forward.

"Mallory? You're still here?"

"Well…where else would I be?" Her eyes widened, and Anders realised that she must have seen him enter his private room when he returned to the clinic…alone.

"Is…someone else down there?" she asked tentatively, her eyes flitting to the door.

"No."

Mallory's eyes dropped to the floor, and then wandered back to the door. Her hands were tightly clasped in front of her. "But…I heard two voices…" She trailed off, and her bright blue eyes widened further as she stood awkwardly, both of them now aware that Anders had been talking to himself, or so it seemed.

Anders sighed and hung his head, taking a few steps back to afford Mallory some space. "I'm surprised you don't know," he said quietly, his posture making him appear smaller. "I'm host to a Fade spirit. Sometimes…we disagree," he added with a hollow laugh.

"Oh," murmured Mallory. "Erm…one of the lads said something about that, but I didn't believe him. I didn't even know that was possible."

"Neither did we - Justice and I - I mean; that's his name. It was sort of an experiment. I'm glad that it worked out, but sometimes…oh, never mind. Anyway, Mallory, there's no need to be afraid. I know it was probably weird for you to hear me talking to him, but…he's a good spirit, very decent."

"You sounded upset, Anders."

Anders breathed deeply through his mouth, slowly exhaling out of his nose. "I'm-I'm fine. Just a bit of silliness," he said briskly, squeezing past Mallory. "Any patients?"

"Erm…Luke and big Beatrice came in while you were out with your friends, but I sent them away with a couple of your potions. I hope you don't mind."

"Mind?" Anders laughed and his posture relaxed a little as he turned back. "Why would I mind?"

"Well, I was just thinking that maybe you'd feel I was trying to take over or something," she uttered.

"Mallory, I told you earlier that you're Maker-sent!" he replied lightly, and then his face fell a little at Mallory's nervousness. "I really did frighten you, didn't I? I'm sorry. I hope-I hope you don't think differently of me, now."

Mallory shrugged and stepped a little closer to Anders. "It's strange, I'll admit. But…well, you don't strike me as a frightening person. Lonely, though. I do see that in you."

Anders gasped and felt a burning in his stomach. A heavy frown appeared and he stared, stunned, at the small young woman before him.

"I shouldn't have said that," she quickly defended. "I'm sorry. I'm used to being free with my opinions. Sometimes I run my mouth off, and sometimes I say things that I have no business saying."

"Um, no, it-it's fine," Anders mumbled. "It can be a bit isolated down here sometimes," he added with a forced smile. "It's enough to drive a man cuckoo!"

A flicker of sadness in Mallory's eyes was quickly blinked away as she returned Anders's smile. "Well…while it's quiet, would you care for some company? We could have a bite to eat, and you can tell me all about…Justice? If…you want to, that is."

Anders's smile widened, and his eyes sparkled as warmth tickled his insides. "I'd like that, Mallory."

"I told you to call me Mal," she scolded with a cheeky grin.

"I'd like that, Mal," he teased, and waved his hand, indicating that she precede him. "After you."

~o~O~o~

Fletcher slept for a long time. Fenris was determined to stay awake, although he wasn't sure why. It certainly wasn't out of fear of Fletcher; he had long stopped suspecting Fletcher of harming him, even with the discovery of his status as a maleficar. No, it was something else; Fenris found the near-silence, accompanied by Hawke's breathing and the occasional snort, soothing after the noise, the pain and the fear of his flashback.

In Hightown, when he'd stood before Donnic – the friend he'd almost-

A shudder travelled through him as he remembered how close he'd come…how easily he could hurt those he cared about, or worse. Not only did he feel wretchedly guilty but he was furious with himself for yet again losing control. He'd lost control at the barracks and he'd lost control in Hightown, when Donnic, Sebastian and Hawke had decided what was going to be done with him.

He didn't blame them for that, of course; Fenris had been in no state to decide anything, then. But being in control of a situation, knowing exactly what was going to happen, was important to Fenris; vital, even, after living for so long as a being – a chattel - with no control over his destiny whatsoever.

Here, sitting next to the slumbering Hawke, he was in control. He knew that every exhalation of Hawke's would be followed by another. He knew that the logs on the fire would pop occasionally and that now and again Hawke would shift slightly or mumble something under his breath. Fenris hadn't found comfort in being alone after all; before he'd met Hawke, he'd become accustomed to being on his own, but he realised that he was nowaccustomed to company; Hawke's company. He knew that the two of them had a long road, paved with hard and possibly hurtful discussions, ahead of them, but, in the meantime, he would enjoy the simple calm that company, and being in control, brought.

Fenris's enjoyment, however, was short-lived. A key noisily rattling in the door snapped him out of his relaxed state, and he sat up straight as the cantankerous man he'd briefly met earlier entered. Both men stared at each other uneasily for a moment before Gamlen closed the door and walked over to the settee.

"Is he-"

"Asleep," Fenris finished for him.

Gamlen nodded, folded his arms and eyed Fenris carefully, sizing him up. "So…you're an elf, then."

"The last time I looked, yes. And you are a human," Fenris answered with equanimity.

Gamlen pointed at his dozing nephew. "And what are you to him?"

"I am…a friend," replied Fenris after some consideration.

"A friend? Or a friend?"

"I'm sorry, I don't quite understand the question. A friend is a friend."

"Are you the elf Leandra keeps harping on about? The one Fletcher's addled over?"

Fenris was baffled by the man's strange questions, but kept his tone polite. "As your sister is not here, I cannot know the answer to that. Perhaps you should ask her? If it helps, my name is Fenris."

"Yes, that's the one." The disapproval in Gamlen's expression was clear, but the creases in his face told Fenris there wasn't much the man didn't disapprove of. "Well…just keep the noise down," he warned, and headed toward his bedroom.

"I will," the elf promised, hiding his amusement well.

"If he wakes up, tell him that his sister and mother are getting leathered in that place the dwarf has just bought."

"Bought? Oh…yes, I see," answered Fenris, knowing exactly where Gamlen meant. "I will tell him. Goodnight."

"Hmph," grunted Gamlen before he closed his door and locked it.

"Has he gone, yet?" whispered Hawke, opening one eye.

"You are awake," said Fenris, pointing toward Gamlen's room.

Hawke nodded, stretched, and sat himself up. "How long have I been asleep?"

"I am uncertain, but your tea is cold."

"Oh, I'm sorry-"

"You needed to sleep, Hawke. Do not trouble yourself over it." Fenris fidgeted in his seat and edged away from Hawke slightly, his fleeting sense of control slowly slipping away from him now that Hawke had awoken.

Hawke noticed the movement, and hurt, fierce and bright, scalded his stomach. "You're…back to calling me Hawke, then?" He regretted his question as soon as it had left his mouth; it was a cheap shot, and he knew it, resulting from his injured pride. He'd caused much more hurt to Fenris, who hadn't deserved that. "I'm…sorry. Call me what you think is appropriate. I'm-I'm sorry. Bloody hell, I'm so selfish. How are you feeling, Fenris?"

"You are back to calling me Fenris," said the elf, his tone even.

Hawke turned his head toward Fenris, a weak smile hesitantly tugging at his mouth. "Was that a joke?"

"I don't know; was it?" No smile graced Fenris's face, and his voice was perfectly emotionless.

Hawke, crestfallen when Fenris hadn't returned his smile, unconsciously increased the distance between them by crossing his legs and leaning away slightly. "We're being awfully polite with each other, aren't we?"

Fenris clasped his hands together and stared at the fire, sighing quietly. "We are."

"You don't need to be, you know. I want you to say what's on your mind. I want you to yell at me, call me every name under the sun, pound me with your fists if it makes you feel better."

"What would that accomplish?" Fenris asked steadily. "Besides, I do not think your uncle would appreciate me yelling."

"He'd probably join in with you, actually." Hawke pushed himself forward and stood up, vainly attempting to smooth some of the creases out of his robe. "Would you like to take a walk with me?"

Fenris shook his head. "You are going nowhere. Did you not see the concern on your mother's face?"

"I'm not suggesting we walk to Sundermount, F-" Hawke paused, unsure of what to call the elf. "I just feel like a sniff of air, that's all. If I break into a sprint, you have my permission to take me down."

Fenris recognised the humour in Hawke's words, but was uncertain whether or not he should smile. "Very well," he conceded as he rose. "We will remain in the slums, though."

"Right, of course."

They stepped outside and Fenris watched Hawke closely as they walked down the steps. Hawke glanced obliquely at the elf and grinned, heartened by his concern.

"I'm not going to faint or anything, you know."

"Good," answered Fenris dryly. "I would not like to be the one to carry you back up the steps."

Hawke laughed quietly and allowed himself the tiny hope that, in spite of everything, he and Fenris might still emerge from the debacle as friends.

"I wouldn't do that to you, F…Fenris."

"I appreciate that."

The two men walked on in silence, not really sure of where they were going, but Hawke gradually steered them toward the Alienage.

"I'm going to show you where I do most of my thinking," Hawke told Fenris. "Yes, I do think occasionally, in case you were wondering."

Fenris nodded and, as they descended the steps into the Alienage, he halted, stunned. "This is where-"

"Yes. Where we first met."

Fenris's eyes glazed over as he recalled that night. He'd been so different, then; so bitter and full of vitriol. That part of him was still very much alive, but its presence was now obfuscated, veiled; its voice was softer, its teeth had no bite. It was a part of him that emerged only rarely now, and, when it did, it no longer gave him strength, conviction or purpose. It felt wrong. And the man standing next him had been responsible for much of that change in him; the change in his fortunes, the change in his beliefs, his perceptions.

The man standing next to him had changed his entire life.

Right there, on the steps of the Alienage, was where it had all begun; where everything had started to take a turn for the better. This was a very important place, and the revelation that Fletcher spent time there, alone, thinking, signified how important he also considered it to be. Once again, the compulsion - the need - Fenris had experienced earlier took hold of him, but Fenris was no nearer to knowing what that need was; he knew what both his head and his heart were telling him, but so far neither had gained the upper hand.

Hawke, seeing that Fenris was deep in thought, stood beside him on the steps and waited. Eventually, the elf blinked and continued on, his brow heavy with care.

"Over here," Hawke said, walking to the Vhenadahl, where he crouched down, re-lighting some of the candles that had gone out. Fenris walked around the tree and assisted, and, before long, the base of the giant tree was surrounded in a soft halo of light. An elderly elf who was passing by bade them good evening and thanked them for keeping the candles lit.

Hawke and Fenris found a space to sit at the foot of the tree, and Hawke leaned against it, looking up at the night sky.

"I was born on 13 Drakonis, 9:04 Dragon," Hawke informed him. Fenris glanced at him and frowned, not understanding.

"I'm starting from the beginning," explained Hawke. "You're going to know everything about me, with nothing left out. If you can stay awake, that is."

An intimation of a smile skittered along Fenris's mouth. "I will do my best."

"Do…you know when you were born?" Hawke asked cautiously.

"I do," answered Fenris. "I once managed to glimpse my papers…Danarius's proof of ownership. One of the other slaves, who had a rudimentary grasp of reading and writing, was able to tell me the date."

Hawke nodded but said nothing.

"8 Kingsway, 9:01 Dragon," Fenris told him. "The occasion was not celebrated, however; not like it would be here."

"Kingsway's passed," Hawke said sadly. "Although…we could have a belated celebration."

"I have never celebrated my Naming Day. I do not even know what my name is. Fenris was 'gifted' to me by Danarius."

"Do you mind being called that?"

Fenris shrugged and also looked up at the sky. "It is as good a name as any, I suppose."

The creak of a door caught their attention, and Merrill stepped out of her small house, situated across from them. "Here again, Hawke?" she called, before she spotted Fenris. "Oh. Good evening, Fenris."

"Merrill."

"Merrill often cops me out here," Hawke told Fenris. "She usually very kindly brings me a cup of tea and sits with me for a bit. Most of the time, we're quiet; it's nice to share silence with someone." He then turned to face the Dalish elf, who slowly walked over to them. "I'm sorry, Merrill; I forgot the shortbread tonight."

"Oh, that's all right, Hawke. Well, I can see that you two probably want to talk. I'll leave you to it. If…you want to pop in afterwards, you'd be very welcome. You too, Fenris."

Fenris nodded and then glanced uncertainly at Hawke.

"We'll do that, Merrill; thank you," Hawke replied.

"Right, then, I'll leave you to it. Erm…I've already said that, haven't I? I am daft. Do you-do you want a blanket or anything? It's a bit nippy out, isn't it? Mind you, I've only got the one."

"We're fine, thanks, Merrill. You have the blanket," Hawke answered with a smile. "We'll see you in a while."

"Oh, right. I'm going, then." Merrill turned and scampered back into her house, closing the door behind her.

"Hardly fits the stereotype of an evil blood mage, does she?" Hawke asked Fenris, who stared at the door to Merrill's home, giving a reluctant shrug.

"We come in all shapes and sizes," he went on. "I'm not trying to make excuses, though, but in Ferelden and the Free Marches blood mages are pariahs; they don't have the power and prestige that they do in the Imperium. Most blood mages don't draw attention to themselves, and some of them are even pretty decent people."

Expecting a rebuttal, Hawke was surprised when Fenris leaned back against the tree and sighed. "I don't know what to think anymore," the elf said shortly, frustration in his voice. "Everything I have ever known, everything I ever believed, has been turned on its head. Rarely have I felt so…perturbed."

"I know. And I'm sorry that…I'm sorry it was such a dreadful shock to you. I could have told you, several times, in fact. But I was weak and selfish. I didn't want to lose you. As my feelings for you deepened, though, I knew that I couldn't go on lying to you. The thought of you finding out without me having told you…I hope you'll believe me when I say that I didn't care for the consequences to myself in that eventuality, but rather I cared about how you would feel. I had to tell you, even though I knew it would very likely destroy everything we have…had."

Fenris hung his head and bent his legs, resting his elbows on them. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out.

"You must feel like the rug's been pulled out from under your feet," Hawke said.

Fenris's head turned in Hawke's direction, but he didn't look at him. "Yes, that is exactly how I feel. You understand."

"Never be in any doubt that I know what I've done to you. I wish…if I could go back…oh, it's pointless to think that, isn't it? What's done is done."

"I…do understand how difficult it must have been for you to tell me," Fenris replied. "I also understand that there are…extenuating circumstances. I still-it does not make the news easier to bear, however. The thought that you-" Fenris stiffened momentarily and then sighed. "I know that you have not had an easy life. I know of the sacrifices you have made, of what you have lost. I am not without sympathy for you. It's just…it's difficult."

"I know that," Hawke said in a hushed tone, "and it's very decent of you to see my side, as well."

"You are not Danarius, and you never will be. When I compared you to him that one time, I-I…that was wrong of me. Terribly wrong."

"You were angry, and you had good reason to be."

"No." There was anger in Fenris's voice, anger directed at himself. "I see now what you were trying to do. Sometimes, when emotions are involved, when they take over, one can be blinded to the motivations of others. At the time, I did not see; I did not want to see. I was blind; to you, and to everyone else. I should have…I know why you kept it from me. You were correct, Hawke; I would have taken off into the mountains alone, where I would likely have been re-captured. How, then, would you and the rest of my friends have felt? My actions were utterly selfish and I know how much I hurt you with my reaction. I will never forget the look on your face. I am far from being perfect, Hawke. None of us are."

Hawke sat forward and inched closer to Fenris. "You know, we can keep blaming ourselves and apologising until we're blue in the face. Let's just stop it, now, both of us. What do you say?"

Hawke offered the elf his hand, and Fenris considered the gesture for a moment before extending his own hand and shaking it. Both men then folded their hands in their laps, mirroring each other as they leaned back against the tree.

"Will you listen, Fen, if I tell you everything? Once you know everything, you can decide what you want to do, with all the facts at your disposal. I'm going to tell you now, though, that I don't intend to give you up easily, but if friendship is all you feel you can give, I'll take it. I…need you in my life, Fen, in some capacity. I didn't realise how empty my life was before you came along."

Fenris's eyes lowered and he squeezed them closed, a deep furrow appearing between his brows. He knew that Fletcher spoke from his heart, that his words were the truth. The impulse, the compulsion, now manifested as a yearning, a hunger. He now knew what he hungered for, but denied it himself even so, afraid and uncertain of what he was about to hear. He slowly opened his eyes and drew a shaky breath. "Yes, I will listen."

After a few moments of silence, Hawke proceeded to tell Fenris his life story, right from the very beginning. He shared tales from his childhood; some funny, some sad, and some downright strange. As he talked, he noticed the occasional bob of Merrill's head through the small window at the front of her house, and Hawke knew that she was concerned about them, and probably still felt guilty about 'revealing' Hawke's secret.

Hawke told his story confidently and engagingly, only becoming more subdued as he approached his teenage years. Fenris noticed a change in Hawke's entire demeanour when he mentioned Dalton Bradshaw, and the friendship the two young men had shared.

"Your sister has already explained what happened to your friend," Fenris said, not wanting Hawke to re-live the story of Dalton's demise unnecessarily. "I am…sorry for what happened."

"Thank you." Hawke cleared his throat and again sat forward, crossing his legs and holding onto his feet. Fenris imagined it was how a child would sit. "Beth didn't actually tell you everything," Hawke said quietly, his eyes fixed on a point in the distance. "Fen, I'm going to tell you things now that nobody knows; not even Mother or Beth."

"You do not have to-"

"I've never told anyone and I need to tell someone," Hawke broke in. "I can't tell Beth or Mother, and I trust you as much as I trust them. You may not approve of, or like, what I'm going to say. But this is part of who I am, who I've become, and you need to know."

"I am ready," said the elf stoically, his jaw clenching in anticipation of what was to come.

"I want you to know that I never promised Father not to tell anyone; it was just assumed, really, but I'm not breaking my word by telling you. Under the circumstances, I think Father would understand, anyway."

Fenris nodded and waited. Hawke took a deep breath, then another.

"Father…Father was also a blood mage."

A jolt, a surge of panic shot through him but he remained as a statue, careful not to let Hawke see his discomfort; this was obviously not easy for him to talk about. "Oh," he murmured as myriad thoughts raced through his head: what kind of a man had Hawke's father been? Hawke hadn't known he was a blood mage, so had his father practised it in secret, or not at all? Had his father congratulated Fletcher on his new-found power, or had he censured his son?

Hawke's eyes were wide as he watched Fenris closely, but he knew the elf was accomplished at masking his feelings when the situation demanded it. "When he found out about me…he-he told me. I was very upset at the time and didn't take in everything he told me, but apparently it was something to do with the Grey Wardens. They forced him to use blood magic," he said angrily, his voice trembling.

"Forced? How?"

"It was…damn, I wish I'd listened more at the time," Hawke replied, shaking his head. "He did explain it to me, but I just couldn't take it all in. What I know for certain is that he did it to protect his family; apparently those bastards threatened Mother, who was pregnant! Father had no choice!" He took a deep breath and lowered his voice, conscious of the late hour.

"He was a good man, Fenris; even though he was forced into it, he was appalled, horrified, that he would be forever bound to a demon. What I'm trying to tell you, Fen, is that he was in the same position as me: he used blood magic once and never used it again. He told me that's what I had to do: I had to completely separate myself from my demon and never give in to temptation; I would lose myself if I ever did. I looked up to my father, Fen; he was everything to me. I swore to him at the time that I would never use it again and I'm swearing it to you, now. Father said he would always be there to guide me if ever I faltered, but…"

A lull took the conversation, and Fenris could see that Hawke was struggling to keep his emotions in check.

"…If I may ask, how did your father…?"

"D-do you mind if I tell you that another time, Fen? I-I know that I said I would tell you everything, but I-I don't want to…I'll probably embarrass us both if I tell you now, and I want to tell you everything else."

"Of course," Fenris said softly. "Forgive me; I did not mean to-"

"No, it's fine, really. I've just…I've never come to terms with losing him and I still find it really hard to talk about. I just want you to know that there was nothing sinister about his death. It was nothing to do with his demon, or anything like that. I will tell you one day, Fen, I promise. Just not now."

"I understand. Tell me only what you feel comfortable with."

"Please don't judge my father, Fenris; he was as good a man as ever walked Thedas. He was a giant to me. I usually tell Beth everything but I don't want to shatter the illusion she has of him. She might not understand. I-I know that blood mages can be good people. I…"

Hawke clasped his hands together, but not before Fenris noticed that they were shaking. "Would you like to go home?" asked the elf.

"No, no…I-I want to tell you about Dalton," Hawke spluttered.

"I already know," Fenris intoned, placing his hand on Hawke's arm, wanting the conversation to end; as much for his sake as for Hawke's. He could feel his control of the situation deteriorating along with Hawke's. "Do not torture yourself further. Please, let us go back."

"Dalton was a mage," Hawke blurted out.

"I…don't understand," said Fenris. "Bethany told me that you suspected, but that he denied it?"

"He denied it all along, but he confessed the night before…that was why he was so troubled. He didn't want to be a mage. When I told him that I'd made a deal with a demon, he got this look in his eyes and it all came tumbling out. His family were good people but they were very old-fashioned. His parents had told him that, although they had nothing against Father, Beth and I, they felt blessed that no child of theirs had been born a mage."

"So he kept it secret?"

Hawke nodded. "For almost twelve years. I always had suspicions, though." Hawke turned his palms upwards and showed them to Fenris. "You probably already know this, but mages have rough patches, marks, on certain places on their palms. Look." Fenris examined Hawke's palms closely and nodded.

"Yes; I know the marks of which you speak. Mages have special glands on their palms. I am aware of this."

"Well, Dalton wore gloves a lot; that wasn't unusual, with him being a farmhand and all, but I saw him without them a couple of times, and I was certain he had the hands of a mage."

"His status as a mage disturbed him, then?"

"Greatly." Hawke stood up and folded his arms tightly across his chest, keeping his back to Fenris. "That night…we both cried together. We spoke of what tomorrow would bring; neither of us knew. Everything seemed so hopeless. We-we knew, though, that whatever happened, we would have each o-"

Fenris pushed himself to his feet as he heard Hawke's voice break, and stood helplessly as the mage's shoulders trembled.

"S-s-sorry. I-I'm not trying to make you feel sorry for me, I swear. I-it's just such a relief to finally tell someone. I just…I don't understand why he did it. W-was it me? Was he afraid of what I was?"

"It was not your fault," Fenris said firmly, moving to Hawke's side.

"I-I don't know," sighed Hawke, hanging his head. "I guess I'll never know."

"I am honoured that you shared this with me." Fenris's voice was also unsteady and he was deeply concerned at Fletcher's fragility. Fenris touched his arm and started to guide him out of the Alienage; the dazed mage offered no resistance. "I will take you home, now."

"B-but Merrill…"

"She will understand. Perhaps we could visit her tomorrow?"

"Y-you'd come with me?"

"I will go with you," promised the elf, having no intention of leaving Fletcher alone for the time being. "After all, you have invited me into your home. I will accompany you on your travels tomorrow."

"T-thanks. You're…you're a good man, Fen. A very good man."

Fenris didn't answer, but kept hold of Hawke's arm as they left the Alienage.

Merrill, who had been watching through her window, smiled slightly at the tentative accord the two men appeared to have reached, and closed her drapes before locking up for the night.