My humble thanks to Mary, without whom this story would be quite different, and not in a good way. You rock! :D

I'm quite astonished by the kindness of a lovely lady named Shaina, who drew a beautiful piece of artwork to accompany the story. Please take a minute to look at it; you'll find it on her deviantart page at:

xrenaix . deviantart .com/art/Lyrium-Glow-304040299 (remove spaces)

She also filmed the process of drawing the piece, and recorded it on Youtube: youtu . be /DgaEELhV13g (remove spaces)

I've thanked you a hundred times already, Shaina, but thank you again, sincerely.

~o~O~o~

It took an entire day for the group to reorganise and transport their dwindling supplies across the chasm after defeating the darkspawn. Nearly a third of their food had been destroyed or rendered inedible, but all agreed that the barricade had been necessary. That, however, did not make the fact that the food situation was now dire any easier to swallow.

The underground stream had been temporarily frozen by Anders to allow safe passage, but, once they were across, the darkspawn were left to rot; the group had neither the time nor the resources to destroy the tainted corpses. The only advice Anders could offer was that no one drink any water at all in the Deep Roads; he and Fletcher would be able to make pure water using magic.

The usage of magic presented another problem, however: the fight, and Anders's subsequent treatment of Fletcher, had exhausted their supplies of usable lyrium. For the foreseeable future, the mages would have to limit their mana expenditure and allow their reserves to replenish naturally - through rest or sleep - but such a process could take hours, depending on how much mana the mage had used.

The most pressing matter, though, was the condition of Fenris and Fletcher. Fenris had fallen into the water belly-first and had sustained severe bruising as a result; he'd also had trouble breathing during the night as he'd been badly winded by the fall. Anders had ruled out internal bleeding or fractures but hadn't been able to offer much in the way of treatment save rest; therefore, Fenris had slept in a sitting position wearing an oxygen mask. He had since woken and been given a small meal, but, in spite of his protestations that he was well, Anders had insisted he continue to rest. Fenris had followed his advice for the most part but had taken a few short strolls to stretch his legs, each time checking on Fletcher.

Anders had forcibly put Fletcher to sleep after he'd collapsed, having used his mana beyond its normal limits: 'casting on empty', as Anders had described it. Fletcher's actions had left him gravely incapacitated and weakened, but thankfully his body had shut down before his heart had given out; a consequence Anders had heard of in other mages who'd behaved as recklessly as Fletcher had. Anders had stopped topping up his sleep spell several hours earlier to allow Fletcher to wake naturally; he would need to be given fluids soon, as well as food if he could manage it. As Fletcher began to stir, Anders and Varric talked while watching him from a distance.

"All I'm saying, Varric, is that no healer should have been able to defeat an ogre single-handedly. Without being disrespectful to Hawke, he's not even that accomplished a healer; he'd admit that himself. That's not his fault; he wasn't trained in a Circle. The point I'm making is that I – with my extensive training and background fighting darkspawn - wouldn't have managed it. Even Bethany would have struggled, and she's a battle mage. Actually, no; I'm going to stick my neck out and say that no single mage would have survived."

Varric looked at Fletcher – who sat examining his bare arms and hands, which appeared to be mildly burnt – and shrugged. "Isn't he a, um, blood mage? Aren't they supposed to be more powerful or something?"

"He didn't use blood magic."

"Then what do you think it was, Blondie?" Varric lowered his voice and glanced at Fenris, who was standing stiffly at the far end of the small chamber they were in, his eyes fixed on Fletcher. "You think he lost it because he was thinking about his brother? Is that possible?"

Anders sighed, still unsure if he'd done the right thing by not telling Fletcher about the ogre. "It's obvious he was very distressed, and, in some circumstances, a mage will unconsciously commit extra mana to a spell if they're emotionally overwrought. But…again, I don't mean to insult him, but he's just not that powerful, even with a burst of adrenaline."

"Now come on, Blondie; I've seen Hawke in action, and he's pretty darned impressive," replied Varric, a little defensively.

Anders held his hands up. "Don't get me wrong; he has terrific potential, but he needs to train, hone his abilities. I promised him that after the expedition, I'd mentor him while he helps me at the clinic. I suppose it's like what Hawke says about Fenris: he's very intelligent, but, without being able to read, he can't expand his knowledge – improve his intelligence. Does that make sense?"

"I guess so," muttered Varric, still watching the grim-faced Fenris, who was slowly walking over to Fletcher. "So…what do you think caused it?"

"Well, this is a long-shot, but I'm guessing it has something to do with the new lyrium," Anders said quietly. "It's the only explanation I can come up with. It's just a guess, though; I'll need to take a sample with me and run some tests."

"How do you think it affected him, then?" asked Varric with a frown.

"I really don't know. I will tell you, though, that during the fight, I felt that my spells were more…powerful than usual."

"Are you saying this is some kind of super lyrium?" Varric exclaimed excitedly.

"No. It's possible that ordinary lyrium also has an amplifying effect in its raw form; it's just that most mages wouldn't cast around raw lyrium, mainly because they wouldn't be in full possession of their faculties. I didn't cast while we were in the lyrium tunnel; I had no need to, so I wouldn't know. I'm speculating that the lyrium amplified Hawke's spell, but that's not necessarily a good thing, particularly to someone like him, who hasn't fully mastered control of his talents. This lyrium could actually be dangerous, simply because mages would have control of their faculties while using it."

Varric cast Anders a dubious glance. "And this is the part where you stop making sense, Blondie."

"Well, I know what I mean," said Anders wearily, rubbing his forehead.

"You okay, Blondie? Maybe you'd better get some rest; you haven't stopped since we caught up with you." Varric touched Anders's arm, steering him away.

"No, I'd better check on Hawke, first," Anders answered.

"Well, at least let me stand you to a cup of tea," offered Varric with another glance at Fenris, who was now standing over the bewildered Fletcher with his arms folded. "Something tells me a chewing-out is imminent. Let's leave them to it."

"Yes, all right." Feeling like he would drop at any moment, Anders allowed himself to be guided over to the rest of the group, where he sat, keeping an eye on Fletcher and Fenris, while Varric rustled up some tea.

"Fen?" Fletcher, who was naked besides a pair of clean braies – lent by Anders - looked up, his brow furrowed with confusion, and he flinched at the elf's hard expression. "What-what happened to my skin? And where's my robe?" He held up an arm, which was raw and bright pink, and covered in a thick, greasy emulsion of some kind, as was the rest of him.

"Your robe was incinerated," Fenris answered shortly, "and your skin is sore because Anders had to scrub you from head to toe in a solution of lye."

"But…I don't…why-why would he do that?" Fletcher mumbled, looking hurt and befuddled.

Fenris drew a stinting, tautly-controlled breath. "Because you were foolish enough to walk through water which had been tainted by the darkspawn. Do you not remember?"

Fletcher blinked several times, his thought processes torpid after Anders's sleep spell. He concentrated as best he could, but could only offer a shrug in response, his mind a blank.

Exasperated, Fenris turned his back on Fletcher and huffed. "And what about the ogre? Do you remember that?"

"Ogre?" Fletcher's brow creased further, and then it smoothed, his face slackening as fleeting images of fire and darkness swept through his mind. "Maker…you-you fell! Are you all right?"

Panicked, Fletcher hastened to stand but was prevented from doing so by Fenris's command. "Sit down!" ordered the elf irately. "You are supposed to be resting!"

Fletcher slumped, hanging his head, and Fenris groaned, regretting his harsh tone, but his guilt did little to quell his anger. "What were you thinking?" he demanded, his voice quieter but no less condemning. "You could have killed yourself!"

"I couldn't…I wasn't going to let it hurt you-"

"You should not have endangered yourself for my sake!" snapped the elf, his voice quaking. "I am not worth losing your life over!"

"What? Now, just a minute!" protested Fletcher, his confusion giving way to his own anger. "You're not worth it? What kind of talk is that? I would have done anything to protect you, and you would have done the same for me!"

"I would not have taken such a senseless risk! I gave you my word that I would not endanger myself needlessly!"

"Well I didn't give my word!" Fletcher retorted, before the last of his fight left him and he closed his eyes, shaking his head, resigned to whatever Fenris had to throw at him. Fenris, however, failed to answer, his posture matching Fletcher's.

"Are you all right?" Fletcher quietly asked after a fraught moment.

"I'm fine." Fenris released a gusting sigh and paced back and forth. "How-how do you feel?"

"Oh, I feel all kinds of things. Stupid, sore, angry; the usual, you know?"

"Angry?" asked Fenris, taken aback at Fletcher's sniping tone. "Why are you angry?"

"Did you know about the ogre?" Fletcher demanded.

Another minute of silence passed between them, before Fenris exhaled and cast his eyes to the ground. "Yes. I knew."

"Right. And don't you think it might have been nice for you to tell me? Or for Anders to tell me? So, you know, it wasn't such a horrendous shock for me? Just a thought, you know."

Guilt overcame Fenris's anger and he folded his hands across his belly, looking Fletcher in the eyes. "Anders decided it would be better for you not to know. I agreed with him. In hindsight, it would appear that we were gravely mistaken. Knowing how your brother met his end, we should have warned you. No. I should have warned you. This-this is my fault."

"Oh, Fen…" Fletcher sat up a little and rested his head against the stone wall. "Look at us. We can't even argue properly anymore."

"I do not think it appropriate for you to make jokes after you almost died," Fenris replied tersely.

"I wasn't joking," said Fletcher sadly. "When Torbal brought that rope up without you attached to it, I thought you were dead. In that moment, I knew I'd failed to protect you. Just like I failed to protect Carver. When I heard about the ogre…I just…lost it. I'm sorry. I can't imagine how frightened you must have been to see me like that."

A low sigh came from Fenris, and he moved over to Fletcher, sitting beside him. "Talk to me," the elf encouraged.

Fletcher glanced at the elf and rubbed his face with his hands, wincing as he touched the tender skin. "He scrubbed my face as well?"

Fenris nodded. "He feared that you had taken in the taint. He was…thorough."

"You're telling me," Fletcher griped, pulling his borrowed braies away from his inflamed groin.

"I held a towel over that part of you," Fenris assured him. "To ensure there was no…impropriety." A faint, wry upturn of one edge of Fenris's mouth immediately put Fletcher at ease, until he remembered that Fenris had killed the emissary.

"What about you?" he asked nervously. "The emissary…you-you got its blood all over you!"

"Thankfully, my armour protected me," answered Fenris, looking at his bare hands. "The downside is that my gauntlets and cuirass have had to be discarded. Anders told me that tainted water is one thing, but tainted blood is quite another. He would not take any chances. Losing part of my armour is a small price to pay," he conceded with a shrug.

"So you're safe?" Fletcher asked anxiously.

"I believe so, yes. And, it would seem, so are you. Anders examined your body for contusions and found none. You were very fortunate," he said sternly.

Not wishing to be drawn into another argument, Fletcher evaded Fenris's valid point. "Your cuirass? But that means-"

"Yes. Aveline will have my intestinal tract for stockings."

"Guts for garters."

"I…beg your pardon?"

"She'll have your gutsfor garters. That's how we said it in Ferelden, anyway."

"Fair enough," commented Fenris, "but I believe my version to be wittier."

"You would." Fletcher tentatively reached for Fenris's hand, and the elf held it loosely, not wanting to cause Fletcher pain. "I wouldn't worry, Fen; I doubt Aveline is the kind of girl who wears stockings or garters, anyway."

"I suspect you are correct." Fenris smiled faintly, inching closer to Fletcher, and he glanced down at his leggings. "My clothing also had to be destroyed; now, I have no spares to change into."

"Lucky you don't wear pants then, isn't it?"

"It is, indeed." Fenris leaned back against the rock and sighed. "You raised an interesting point earlier: our arguments are woefully short-lived these days, aren't they?"

"But that's good…isn't it?" Fletcher queried.

Fenris nodded. "Yes. I do not enjoy arguing with you. Not anymore."

"Nor do I," Fletcher said softly, "Even though I sometimes give you good reason to argue with me."

"Why did you do it?" Fenris asked in a reasonable tone. "What was in your mind?"

"I just…" Fletcher leaned forward, staring ahead, and he shook his head before leaning back against the wall. "I've had something on my mind, which I should have told you about, but didn't. It-it's nothing sinister; I mean, I haven't been keeping anything from you. Well, I have, but not in that way. I…oh, shut up, Fletcher, and talk some sense."

"Take your time," Fenris murmured. "There is no rush." He frowned, then, as a thought occurred to him. "Fletcher, is it connected with…your father?"

Fletcher's head snapped round to face the elf, and his mouth fell open. "You…how did you know that?" he asked, astonished.

"I recall speaking with your sister when we were at the Dalish camp; the night you told me…" He cleared his throat and straightened up. "She said that your father died shortly after your naming day. I have always remembered, in case you needed to…unburden yourself when the time came."

"You…really?" Deeply touched by Fenris's thoughtfulness and compassion, Fletcher's lower lip wobbled.

"No more weeping," Fenris commanded, his tone conveying remonstration and a sliver of amusement. "You cannot blame the lyrium this time."

"Saw through my excuses, eh?" Fletcher whispered, his eyes shining with unshed tears as he gave Fenris a thin, but genuine smile.

"Always." Fenris gave Fletcher's hand a gentle squeeze. "Talk to me. Unburden your troubles."

"Th-thank you." Fletcher was silent for a while as he gathered his thoughts, and both men looked up when Sheldon thoughtfully brought over a cup of tea for them, before leaving them alone. Fletcher blew on his tea and took a few sips before he began.

"I'd had Father on my mind, yes; Carver, as well. When Anders told me that he sensed darkspawn, I feared that we'd run into an ogre. I didn't know what I'd do if I faced another one. I thought…I thought that I'd come to terms with losing Carver, thought I'd forgiven myself, but there will always be something, deep down…a part of me that will always blame myself for his death."

"Like you blamed yourself for Dalton's?" ventured Fenris, determined that Fletcher would get everything off his chest.

"Yes." Fletcher hung his head and took a deep breath.

"And…do you blame yourself for your father's death?"

"No," Fletcher said decisively. "Although at the time, I was hard on myself because I wasn't with him when he died." Fletcher sighed and looked at his and Fenris's hands, their fingers intertwined. "They said it was his heart…I wouldn't have been able to save him, I know that now. He-he fell in the fields one day, while working. Huh. Carver found a way to blame me for that, as well. The bastard."

"The fields?" A sudden surge of heat through Fenris's gut sent his breath rushing out, and Fletcher touched his arm, troubled by the elf's reaction and strained tone of voice.

"Fen? What is it? What's wrong?"

"I…don't know." Fenris's eyes widened as unease was carved deeply onto his brow. "When you mentioned the fields…I-I saw something. I…think."

"Close your eyes," Fletcher said quickly. "Don't let it slip away. Concentrate!"

"It's gone-" Fenris began.

"No, you have to think!" Fletcher urged firmly, clasping Fenris's arms. "This is important, Fenris! What did you see? Think!"

Fenris shook his head, panic in his eyes as his breathing quickened. "No…I can't…"

"Yes, you can! Come on! The Fenris I know doesn't just give up!"

Fletcher looked on in dismay as Fenris bit his lower lip, his eyes darting left and right, his shoulders heaving. Fearing he'd pushed Fenris too far, he loosened his grip on the elf and softened his voice. "Fenris, I'm sorry. Please…let's just forget it. I'm sorry, love."

"There-there was an elf," Fenris communicated, his voice quaking. "In the fields. He looked like…his-his eyes…"

"What about his eyes? Who did he look like?" Fletcher asked gently, his stomach churning.

Wordlessly, Fenris released Fletcher's hand and pushed to his feet, his back to the mage as he shook his head. "I'm sorry," he uttered thickly. "I…we will speak later. I must…" Fenris looked back at Fletcher, not wanting to leave him but needing to be alone; almost asking permission with his eyes.

Fletcher struggled to his feet, accepting Fenris's proffered hand. "Go on," murmured Fletcher, nodding ahead. "We'll speak later. You know I'll always be here."

Fenris closed his eyes, dipping his head, and quietly exited the chamber, taking refuge in a quiet place not far from Fletcher and the others.

"What was that about?" Anders asked from behind Fletcher, having approached him after Fenris had left. "And why are you standing up? You should be sitting down."

There it was again: the same biting irritation that had taken hold of Fletcher in the lyrium chamber. Why was he still angry with Anders? He turned around, not sure if he was concealing it well, and not sure if he cared, either.

"Anders." Fletcher looked at the rest of the group, who were preparing supper. "When everyone's eaten, we'll set off immediately."

"Out of the question!" Anders laughed derisively, his hand slicing through the air, and he noticed the flare of Fletcher's nostrils, the tension in his shoulders. "You're still not well, Hawke. Both you and Fenris need more rest."

"No! I'm sick of this blasted place!" bristled Fletcher, anger rising up into his gullet as burning acid.

"We all are, Fletcher," answered Anders smoothly, choosing his words carefully.

"Don't use your healer's voice on me," Fletcher bit back. "It won't work."

"Sorry," said Anders, his voice reverting to normal as he held back a sigh. "Hawke…you know that we can't leave, yet. Fenris was also injured, remember?"

"I know he was bloody injured! Are you saying I don't care about Fenris, Anders?"

"You know I'm not saying that. You love him. And that's why you know he – no, both of you – have to rest. He loves you as well, and he'd be upset to see you suffering. You know this, Hawke; you're not stupid."

Fletcher gaped at Anders, his fellow mage's disarming words taking effect, and his heart sank into his boots, worried for Fenris and feeling wretched for delaying the expedition. "Anders…I-I don't know what's wrong with me," he blurted. "I feel angry with you and I don't know why. Maker, you saved my life…I don't like this; it-it's a horrible feeling, like I'm out of control."

Relieved, Anders exhaled and moved closer to Fletcher. "I've been there, Hawke. The Deep Roads is a place I've tried very hard to forget. Any mage is going to suffer down here. It was Oghren, with me," he said with a fond smile.

"Who? What do you-"

"The one I fixated on; the one I blamed everything on," Anders explained. "He was the mastermind behind the plot to assassinate me," he said ruefully. "Ha, if you'd known Oghren, you'd know that 'mastermind' is a contradiction in terms. He took it all on the chin, though; it just gave him more ammunition when I did come to my senses. I was known as 'Crazy Ol' Sparklefingers' from then on. Or 'Sparky the Nutjob', when he was in a more erudite mood."

"You mean…?" Fletcher began.

"I've been through it, Hawke. Look, I don't mind if you take your anger out on me; I know it's not real."

"But…I don't want to," Fletcher mumbled, thoroughly ashamed of himself.

"I'm glad it's me, really," said Anders with a shrug. "I understand. If it had been one of the dwarves, you might be short a bollock or two by now. And that's because they like you."

Varric moved closer to the mages, clutching a book to his side. "Ah, Varric!" Anders exclaimed brightly. "I believe you wanted to interview the hero of the hour?"

"Yeah, I do, Blondie, so stop cutting into my writing time and step aside."

"You-you want to what?" a confused Fletcher stammered.

"Don't keep him too long," Anders ordered.

"Yeah, yeah." Varric made a 'yap yap' gesture with his hand behind Anders's back and pushed in between the mages, steering Fletcher back to his little corner. "Siddown, Hawke," he invited, and Fletcher complied without arguing, though his eyes wandered over to where Fenris had exited.

Varric snapped his fingers in front of Fletcher's face and sat down next to his friend. "So," he said without preamble, opening his book. "When you were breathing fire at the ogre…"

"What? I-I wasn't-"

"Details, Hawke. Nothing but trifling details. When this story is read in a few ages' time, do you really think the reader will care where the fire came from? Nah, so long as the fire's in there somewhere, it's not a lie, is it? Now, are you gonna help me write this story, or do I enlist the pirate to help me? You know how that would end up. You, she and the elf would wind up in a Rivaini sandwich while the ogre looked on…touching itself."

"Varric!" Fletcher exclaimed, an incredulous laugh rushing out of him.

"Exactly," Varric said with an intense look at the mage, who noticed Sebastian discreetly slipping out of the chamber. "Hawke?" Varric prompted, and Fletcher, comforted that Fenris would have some company, looked at the dwarf, slightly more alert. "When you were breathing fire at the ogre…?"

Fletcher sighed, grateful to Varric for attempting to lift his spirits, and played along. "When I was breathing fire at the ogre," he started, and Varric waited, quill poised at the ready, for the mage to continue.

~o~O~o~

Merrill hummed softly to herself as she used the finely-bristled brush to loosen the more stubborn of the cobwebs. Today was a good day; at last, she'd succeeded in doing what they thought she couldn't. Now the clan had to take notice of her. No longer would they fear or ridicule her. They would finally understand!

Yes, today was a very good day.

"Got you, you little scamp!" she said to the cobweb, poking out her tongue as she reduced it to a tiny tube of silk between finger and thumb. She resumed her delicate work, as well as her humming, only to be interrupted by a quiet knock at her door.

Carefully placing the brush down, she stood up and examined the Eluvian for a while, before she was distracted by a second, louder knock. Blinking, she walked over to the door. "Aren't I the popular one today?" she asked aloud. This would be her second caller today; the first had delivered the mystical Dalish artefact to her home.

Opening the door, she gasped; Hawke's mother was standing right there, on her doorstep! A proper lady, all posh and everything, and her place was such a mess!

"Oh! I-It's Hawke's…um…Leand…no. Um…I-I'm not sure what's proper. Rats." Taking a deep breath, she straightened up and plastered a dignified, calm expression across her face. She was good at that, and it in no way made her look like she was bursting for a wee. Hopping from foot to foot was considered dignified among humans, wasn't it?

"My dear, you must call me Leandra; I told you that the last time we met," said the posh lady kindly, moving the small basket she carried from one arm to the other.

"Oh, I know, but that was a while back, and I didn't want to be impolite or anything…um, well, it's nice to see you…Leandra," she said with a giggle, realising with consternation that she really did need a wee, now.

"And it's very nice to see you, as well," answered the nice lady. "Merrill, I do hate to impose myself on you, but would it be all right if I came in? It is raining rather heavily."

Merrill's face coloured as if she'd been struck and she jumped back, frantically ushering Leandra in. "I'm so sorry!" she cried, her stomach turning over. "What's wrong with me? I-I'm just not used to having visitors. Come on, there's a chair next to the fire." She led Leandra over to her meagre fire before rushing into the back room, returning with a large towel.

"Tea?" she offered, thrusting the towel into Leandra's hands.

"That would be lovely, Merrill. But please don't go to any trouble for me."

"Oh, it's no trouble at all." Merrill's face dropped then, and she once again affected her dignified, solemn expression, belied by her burning cheeks. "I think I've just realised. I don't actually have any tea."

Smiling, Leandra reached into her basket and produced a couple of small wrapped packages. "Fletcher told you me you drink so much tea you're constantly running out," she said tactfully, and handed Merrill the items. "We have far too much at home, so I thought I'd bring you some. I also baked too many cakes," she finished with a twinkle in her eye.

By the time Merrill had sufficiently thanked Leandra and finally got round to making the tea, almost half an hour had passed, and Merrill brought in cake and a house-shaped teapot on a tray, only to find Leandra examining the Eluvian.

"Oh! Don't touch that!" Merrill shrieked in panic, and clapped a hand over her mouth, almost dropping the tray as Leandra recoiled from the broken mirror. "I didn't mean…I'm sorry I shouted."

"You didn't," answered Leandra politely. "What is this? It appears very old."

Merrill sighed, setting the tray down, and joined Leandra. "It's the Eluvian; an heirloom of my people. I wanted to fix it, so that the Dalish would have a piece of history," she explained proudly. "So much has been taken from us and all we have left are our stories. This is real, something that old men can tell their grandchildren about and then actually show them. It's very, very special."

Leandra detected sadness in Merrill's tone and she watched the Dalish elf thoughtfully as she gazed at the mirror. "Your people entrusted you to restore this, alone?" she ventured.

"Not exactly," Merrill replied awkwardly, twisting her fingers together. "They-they're not really as enthusiastic about it as I am." Pre-empting Leandra's next question, she shrugged. "They say it's…evil. All right, I know that something bad happened a while ago. But that was because it was tainted by the darkspawn. I've cleansed it, now."

"Oh, Merrill," Leandra said with concern, "I do hope you aren't involved in anything dangerous."

"It's not dangerous," Merrill insisted. "I purified it with a spell, and it's completely safe. That's what my clan doesn't understand."

"How did you purify it?" asked Leandra curiously. "I've never heard of a spell that would remove the taint."

"I had to use blood magic for that," Merrill whispered.

"Oh…I…didn't realise," Leandra murmured quietly, her eyes moving to the door.

"My clan doesn't approve of it, but you would probably understand, what with your son and everything," continued Merrill, too late to register the alarm on Leandra's face.

"Fletcher? What does he have to do with blood magic?" demanded Leandra, and Merrill gulped, breaking out in a cold sweat as it finally dawned on her that Fletcher had not told his mother.

"Oh, I didn't mean…I-I meant because he's also a mage. Y-yes, a mage. Bethany, too. Th-that's all I meant…um…"

Leandra paused momentarily before she gracefully moved over to the chair and returned the damp towel to Merrill. "Well, I must be heading for home. Thank you for having me, Merrill."

"B-but your tea…"

"I'm frightfully sorry, Merrill, but I've just remembered an errand I must attend to," said Leandra, heading for the door without looking at Merrill, her tone of voice perfectly measured and civil. "Oh, yes…the reason I came to see you in the first place was to warn you that the templars are on the prowl. Be careful. And thank you again."

"I will," Merrill whispered, crushed, as Leandra closed the door behind her. With trembling hands, she placed the towel down on her rickety table and took a few shaky breaths in an unsuccessful attempt to calm herself. "Oh, Creators!" she squeaked breathlessly, tears spilling down her cheeks. "May the Trickster take me! What have I done? I have to-I have to put this right!"

Not giving herself time to think, she threw a few items of clothing into a small bag, along with the rest of Leandra's cake, and fled the house, her tears washed away by the driving rain as she ran through the streets.

Today was not such a good day, after all.

~o~O~o~

Fletcher was still 'assisting' Varric with his account of the darkspawn fight when Sebastian re-entered the chamber, his eyes searching. When they met Fletcher's, the archer raised his chin a little, indicating that Fletcher join him.

"Excuse me, Varric; I'll be back later. Just carry on without me." With a helpful nudge from the dwarf, Fletcher shakily got to his feet, surprised at how weak he still felt, and meandered over to Sebastian.

"I believe he would welcome your company, Hawke," Sebastian told him with a nod down a small tunnel; the glow of Fenris's torch was barely visible at the end of it.

"Thank you for talking to him," said Fletcher, and Sebastian shook his head.

"I didn't, much. I merely sat with him. After a while, he asked if I would send you in."

"Well, thank you anyway. You're a good friend to him."

"To you both." Sebastian turned and walked away, Fletcher's anxious smile following him. With a sigh, he started down the tunnel, coming to a halt when he found the elf, who sat on a small rocky ledge, one hand hanging between his knees, the other braced against his thigh.

"Hello, Fen." Fletcher joined him on the ledge, first testing to see if it would hold his weight.

Fenris looked at Fletcher and smiled with his eyes only, before his gaze moved to the ground. "I owe you an apology. Another one."

"Whatever you imagine you need to apologise to me for, you don't. Trust me." Fletcher reached for one of Fenris's hands and brought it to his mouth, gently kissing it.

This time, the smile gently curved Fenris's lips, and he began to move Fletcher's hand to his own mouth, but he hesitated, his smile quickly fading. "I had no right…you were confiding in me about your father. Whatever it is I thought I saw, I should not have interrupted you, taken off like that. I am utterly selfish. Please, Fletcher…continue. I give you my word I will not abandon you again. I am deeply sorry for my actions."

"Selfish?" Fletcher snorted and brought his and Fenris's hands to rest against his thigh. "Look. My father died eleven years ago. What happened earlier, well, happened earlier. You had every right to be upset. We can speak of my father another time. I want to know what you saw. This is the first thing you've been able to recall clearly, Fen; this is massive."

Fenris looked up, his eyes slowly moving to Fletcher's, an unspoken question in them.

"Please," Fletcher prompted. "The elf you saw…who did he look like?"

"He looked like…me," confessed Fenris; despite his reluctance to burden Fletcher, he was in fact desperate to speak. "Only…older."

Fletcher released Fenris's hand and wrapped his arm around the elf's slender shoulders. "Do you think he may be your father?" he asked softly.

"I don't know," answered Fenris, quiet and uncertain.

"Describe him for me."

Fenris swallowed and squeezed his eyes closed, furiously concentrating. "Dark hair…the colour of treacle, with streaks of grey at the temples. Green eyes, identical to my own…it's almost as though I'm seeing myself, several years in the future."

"And what's he doing?" Fletcher asked, stroking Fenris's shoulder.

"He is looking at me…he's holding an implement of some kind. A sickle?" Fenris opened his eyes and frowned deeply, before his eyes closed again. "I am uncertain."

"And what else do you see?"

A long pause followed, and Fenris sighed, shaking his head. He then straightened up and opened his eyes, staring ahead. "Wait…the sun. It's a sunny day." A pained smile came across Fenris's face, and a noise similar to – but not quite - a laugh burst out of him. Seeing tears in the elf's eyes, Fletcher pulled him close and placed a gentle kiss to his cheek.

"I know this is difficult, Fen, but you must try to remember. Every little detail you can."

"Help me?" asked Fenris. "Keep asking questions. They…seem to help."

"I'll ask questions all night if needs be, dearest one," answered Fletcher, and Fenris, humbled and touched by Fletcher's care, took the mage's hand and returned his kiss. "Now," Fletcher prompted. "What was he wearing?"

More determined, Fenris nodded and once again closed his eyes.