When you open your mind and hands and heart to the knowing of a thing, there is no room in you for fear.
—Riddle-Master of Hed, Patricia McKillip

—

The prince-consort of the isolated mountain kingdom of Kirkwall rose from his wife's throne, rolled his head on his shoulders, and only with great force of will did not throw his crown into the wall behind the dais. The cool metal had been reshaped to fit him beautifully, three slender black bars of iron interwoven across his brow, but two months of marriage had not yet made him used to the weight. Moreover, the markings on his forehead, usually the most placid of all his tattoos, had chosen today to protest the metal just beneath them, and he desperately wanted to scratch.

But that, as Leandra's tutors had made quite clear to him, was unprincely, at least in open session. Fenris drew in a long breath between his teeth, let it out again, and hopelessly commanded the scratching to stop.

Varric, who had been leaning against the wall for most of the last hour, came across the dais to meet him. "Not bad, princeling," he said, and smiled. "You had them eating out of your hand for the last few."

"This is Hawke's domain," Fenris said through gritted teeth. "Penitents, solicitors, farmers with grievances against their neighbors." Even now a cluster of a dozen or so stood in the great open doorway at the other end of the great hall, discussing the ramifications of his judgements. None serious, he hoped, nor overly expensive; he was assuaged that none looked angry, only thoughtful. A few nodded, laughed at something another said. "They would have done better to wait for Hawke next month."

"I thought you did fine," Varric said, and thumbed at his own crown. Gold, his, and pegged with rubies, and Fenris was still not entirely sure what demesne his bloodline ruled, nor why it could apparently release him to near-permanent residence within Kirkwall. "Besides, your face at the man with the filthy pig was like something out of a book. You'd have cracked in half if you'd gone any stonier."

He curled his lip at both the memory and Varric's laughter. "I'm glad one of us enjoyed himself."

"Tremendously. Where is Hawke, anyway?"

"One of the women in the lower city is at risk of a breech birth. She went into labor this morning, and Hawke went to help." He glanced out the windows that lined either side of the castle's great hall; they stretched from floor to cavernous ceiling, and the white cold sunlight of early afternoon shafted through the unstained glass. "She said it might take some time."

"And with her royal parents already in Starkhaven, and the prince still at sea, here you are, leading your first open session all on your lonesome."

Fenris lifted a diffident shoulder. "Just so."

The king and queen had gone ahead of the rest of the family to An Taigh Gheal, accompanying their youngest daughter on her voyage to marry the prince of Starkhaven. For years she had hidden the fact that she was halfway in love with the prince herself, believing him already in love with Hawke; serious effort had been required on both Hawke's and Sebastian's parts to convince her otherwise. A longer, more deliberate courtship had followed, both by letter and a very welcome visit to Kirkwall from Sebastian himself, made for the joint purpose of meeting the princess in fresh milieu and for the weddings of both Fenris and Donnic.

To see his friend again after so long had hurt Fenris's heart with joy; to see him dance with Kirkwall's youngest daughter, both their faces glowing, had made him gladder still. Sebastian had lamented one night at dinner the new, worrying tendency of his guardsmen to marry Kirkwall women, but as the weeks went on and he drew closer to the princess Bethany his gentle hypocrisy became clear, and in six weeks Kirkwall and Starkhaven would at last find themselves permanently entwined.

As pleased as Fenris was for Sebastian, he could not pretend the timing was ideal. Word had reached Kirkwall only two days ago that a retinue from Tevinter travelled at great speed towards their mountain. Preliminary reports had suggested a few days yet to their arrival; while the scouts could not be certain Danarius travelled with them, Fenris could not deny the possibility. It was just such a time as Danarius would favor. The king and queen and their youngest daughter gone to Starkhaven, the prince's ship not yet returned from his latest tour—and left to guard the throne only a crown princess and a former slave.

Hawke had refused to go without him. He had known she would do so even before he asked; she could no more abandon her mountain than fly, and she would never leave him to face Danarius alone. His fear for her had choked him even through the love; three kingdoms had sworn oaths of protection against Danarius, and even so he woke from dreams of his master wounding Hawke in Fenris's stead.

Still, until the man himself came to darken the doors of the great hall, there was nothing to be done, and Hawke had insisted their royal duties would continue. And so here Fenris stood, crowned in cold iron, one hand still resting on the straight uncarved back of Kirkwall's black throne as he watched his subjects wander out of the grand stone hall.

"That's the last of them, Your Highness," said Aveline, disentangling herself from a conversation with two miners and coming up the half-dozen stairs of the dais to meet them. At the far door, her guards, including Donnic, were doing their best to politely shepherd the stragglers out to the courtyard. "Well done."

"Do I look so in need of comfort that it's offered at every turn?" Fenris scraped the heel of his hand over his forehead irritably. "An inspiring confidence indeed."

"Inspiring that you saved all your sourness for us," Aveline muttered, and she sighed. "Fenris, it was your first time on the throne alone. You did a good job. Just take the compliment."

"I don't—fine. Thank you, Aveline."

"A modern miracle," Varric said, smiling, and then he looked towards the hall's entrance. "And speaking of miracles, I think Hawke's made it at last."

She had. She looked harried, squeezing through the supplicants who still had not quite made it out of the hall, barely acknowledging the guards' deferent salute, and her brows were furrowed as she took the steps to the dais two at a time. She still wore the red vest over white linen and tawny leggings she'd had on when she'd left, though both were rather more stained with sweat; she must have come straight from the stables. She seized Fenris's face in both hands and kissed him. "My darling! A thousand apologies, ten thousand apologies. I'm sorry I wasn't here in time. Are you all right?"

"It was court, Hawke, not a nest of vipers." He could not stop the smile; she kissed him again and let him go. "How is the woman?"

"Olivia? Healthy and wonderfully well, with a new little daughter as beautiful as the day is long. Three sons and a girl at last. Thrask didn't say much when I left, but his eyes grew quite suspiciously damp each time he looked at his granddaughter. Look at you in this sober black and your best leathers." She passed her fingertips over his crowned forehead. "Positively regal."

But her smile was strained, and she could not hide it. Aveline stepped closer. "What's wrong, Hawke?"

She grimaced. "I should have been here an hour ago. There was a great procession up the mountain with a half-dozen black carriages with all the windows shut tight moving like molasses in winter, and their guards scowled at me even worse than you do. One started to draw his sword as I tried to pass, and I thought I'd better fall back lest some earnest Kirkwall guard start something on my behalf that I couldn't finish. I've left them in the courtyard now, kicking up the greatest fuss."

Fenris looked sharply towards the door. Now that Hawke had drawn his attention, he could hear the clamor from outside: many voices shouting, not angry yet, but demanding. The guards at the double gate had grown concerned, their hands falling to the hilts of their swords; Aveline descended the steps with alacrity, calling for soldiers as she went. The clamor grew louder.

"No banners?" Varric asked, and even his studied joviality could not hide the tension. "Not even a crest painted courteously on the door?"

"Not so much as a stamped coinpurse," Hawke said, and she looked at Fenris. "I couldn't be sure, but right at the end, I thought I heard one of the soldiers speak Tevene."

It was too soon. They had days yet—it was too soon. The world narrowed to her face, pinpoints of light swallowing up the rest. But her hand was hard around his—that was grounding—and her eyes steady, unflinching—and sound returned, slow and muddy, and the world filled out with color and movement once more. "My sword," Fenris said, his voice steadier than he expected, and a nearby servant leapt up. "And his crossbow. Don't forget the quarrels."

The servant bowed and fled. Hawke looked toward the gates. "It may be diplomacy yet," she said, but her own voice was doubtful.

"No," Fenris said, certain, slow with horror. "I can feel him. Danarius has come for me."

"To take you back?" Varric said incredulously. "Here?"

"My sword!" Fenris shouted, and the great hall went very, very still.

"Well, well, well," came a new voice, unctuous, perfectly composed and perfectly assured. "My little Fenris. How you've grown."

Ten years.

Ten years and more and he could still read every expression in his master's face. The lift of his eyebrow, the slight smile at the corners of his lips: an old fury newly stoked, and cruel, confident anticipation of victory. Fine silk robes, rich grey trimmed in scarlet, cut perfectly to hang just above the floor as always, though he'd added soft white miniver at his shoulders and belted waist. And that familiar staff in his bony hand—for an instant Fenris saw it doubled, the same heavy metal head and smooth ash haft, ten years younger, casually guiding agony through his every limb.

Danarius stood at the head of two dozen Tevinter soldiers, all in gold and black, all armed save two robed strangers, their faces bearing all the cool haughtiness of Minrathous, who took up ready places just behind him. The company had forced their way in through the ten Kirkwall guards, who had retreated from the wave and stood even now as a makeshift barricade between Danarius and the raised dais. Aveline was tall in the center, her shield on her arm and her fist on the hilt of her sword, and the cold mountain sunlight caught her hair and burnished it copper.

She spoke first, authoritative and rebounding from the high ceilings. "You have forced entry into a king's hall without permission or welcome. You have come armed into a place of peace. Surrender your weapons and withdraw."

Shouting from the courtyard again, Kirkwall voices. Someone in Tevene gold pushed at the doors, slammed them both with a hollow boom. The great iron bar fell into place across them. Aveline drew her sword with a clear, echoing ring.

Danarius held up a slender white hand, silver and rubies on each finger. "I assure you, we come with every intention of peace, Guard-Captain. There is no need for bloodshed." His pale eyes fell on Fenris, and that easy, thoughtless command was the same, too. "The time for running is over, my pet. Do come home."

"He is home," Hawke snarled, and two of the unlit torches on the walls behind her burst into flame.

Where was his heart? It had gone cold behind his ribs, heavy and hard as stone, and he could not feel it. Wake up, he raged, and clutched at his own chest. Wake up, wake—

Danarius laughed, cold and contemptuous. "And this is your new master, Fenris? The crown princess of Kirkwall? You have injured my pride, that you would find her suitable replacement for me." A hiss from the Kirkwall guard; Aveline's eyes flashed. Danarius did not seem to notice. "The boy is mine, Your Highness. I bought and paid for him, reshaped his flesh as I wished. Every inch of his skin bears my brands." A tight-lipped smile. "I'm pleased he was able to entertain you so long, but his mind and body belong to me, and I have come to claim him."

"Fenris is not a slave!" There—a pulse. Hawke's heat at his side, thawing the ice. Her face was twisted in anger. "He was free the moment he left you, even if it took a decade for Tevinter to sign for it. Besides, Kirkwall has not recognized slavery in a thousand years. No chattel may be bought, sold, or reclaimed within our borders." She laughed, hard as iron. "Least of all within my palace."

"Palace," Danarius repeated, thinly amused. "Is that what you call it? No matter. You may bind your iron shackles around his forehead instead of his wrists if you like, but my wolf knows his master. Fenris," he said again imperiously. "Come here."

Fenris dragged in a breath. Hawke's warmth surged through him, her love, her wrath. He straightened, felt the cool weight of the crown on his brow, the throne at his back. Anger hardened his voice. "Shut your mouth, Danarius. You have no power here."

Danarius's smile vanished; his face was black now with fury, beyond management. Fenris had thrown himself at his master's feet in abasement for less than this once; now it gave him strength. To Hawke, Danarius said, "Be careful, Your Highness. Or will you bring down all the might of the Imperium on your lonely mountain for the sake of one slave?"

"Oh?" Varric's voice now, and a knowing chuckle that cut through the rising tension. "All the might of the Imperium? Is that before or after your Archon crucifies you for going against his orders?" He was loading his crossbow with easy nonchalance, and when he finished he checked the sight above the crowd. "The way we've heard it, you were told quite clearly not to interfere in the business of the southern countries. In fact, I seem to recall you having been thrown out of the Senate because you couldn't let it go." He tightened a gear spring, rested the crossbow against his shoulder. "This looks plenty interfering, if you ask me."

Behind Fenris, the servant whispered fearfully; he reached back and took hold of his sword's hilt, and the heavy weight was balm and courage in one. Danarius's lip curled in disgust. "Do you think you've won here, little mountain princess? Setting a slave on the seat of a king?" His laugh was flat and angry. "Or is it jealousy, perhaps, that he learned his skills first with me?"

"I am not your slave!" Fenris snapped, and he brought his sword level with his master's eyes, the point steady as rock. "Get out, Danarius, or I will kill you here."

"The word is master," Danarius said sharply. He lifted his staff; a dozen more torches along the walls flashed into flame, and his gold Tevinter soldiers unsheathed their weapons in open threat. Aveline threw up her hand and Kirkwall followed, bright shining blades and gleaming black shields held at the ready. Four more Kirkwallers with crossbows eased out from behind pillars near the dais, eyes hard on the Tevinter interloper. Danarius reached out to the throne, less supplication than command. "This is your last warning, Your Highness. Be reasonable, and your treasury will be rewarded tenfold. Otherwise—well. My men will do what they can to spare you."

"Your generosity astounds, Senator, but I think you'll find us sturdier than you think. As you see, Fenris now has a mountain at his back."

"The boy is mine," Danarius breathed, though he looked directly at Fenris, and his voice had gone very soft, very dangerous, like the hissing of an asp. "Whatever it takes—whomever I must remove from my way—I will have him."

"Prince Fenris?" Aveline's call, ready for his command.

Danarius scoffed. "Bring him to me."

"Stand with me!" Fenris shouted, and he unleashed the torrential power in his skin.

It swallowed him whole. There was rage, yes, and fear, too—Hawke was here, Hawke who deserved no part of this—Hawke who would not let him stand alone even if he asked. He felt her hand on his hand, heard her whisper, go, and he leapt from the dais.

The two forces met in a towering crash. Kirkwall guards thrust their shields ahead of them, an implacable wall; then they yielded all at once and the second line behind them thrust forward with swords and pikes. The first Tevinters died quickly, but they outnumbered the Kirkwallers two to one, and in the second push the orderly defense broke. Black clashed with gold; blood sprayed over the rocky floor.

Fenris had become a ghost. Soldiers struck at him blindly, but he was too fast—his markings gave him power and he demanded all of it, then even more, flitting through the sea of battle towards Danarius like the wind over whitecaps. One woman rose in his path, a longsword in one hand and a dagger in the other; he parried twice and thrust his sword through the woman's throat just as a crossbow bolt thudded between her eyes. A man filled her place instantly, a steel buckler held before him; he reached through the shield and tore the man's heart from his chest, and he fell and died without sound.

Light and fire swirled up beside him in a slender tower, just in time to drive back an archer with a scream. He knew Hawke's strength, did not fear it; he glanced back swiftly to see her on the dais with her fist clenched before her. His eyes burned with smoke and ash. He darted around the pillar of flame, killed a woman with her sword to a Kirkwall guard's neck, and found himself back to back with Aveline. Behind him the fire descended again, consuming a man in leathers whole before jumping to another in full plate.

"All right?" Aveline asked tersely. A sword came down hard on her shield. She braced herself and threw him off, knocking aside another Tevinter behind him. Someone had gotten to the warning bells; they boomed and clanged far above, muffled by stone, crying out for aid.

"Yes—you?"

"Alive so far—" She grunted at another blow from a blunt mace. Fenris spun and caught the man's throat with his off-hand, shoving him back in time for Aveline to square her sword and thrust it between his ribs. "Thanks. Where's Hawke?"

"At the throne—" But he saw in the same moment the pillar of fire shiver, break apart, reform again with uncertain strength. Hawke staggered on the stairs, both hands lifted now, her arms trembling. "Where are the others, the two who came—"

"There!" Aveline gestured with her shield arm towards the back of the hall. The two robed women from Tevinter stood there by the door, fingers outstretched, sweat pouring from their brows. Even as he watched one slashed her own arm, tore the blood from her skin with a gesture, and flung it into the air to wrap it around the pillar of fire. Hawke screamed somewhere behind him, fury and pain. The fire tore apart again, tinted scarlet.

Fenris shouted, but the hall was deafening with cries, with the clash of metal against metal, with the roar of fire. He lit the markings, flung himself through the crowd. His sword caught shields, arms, the chest of one man who staggered backwards into him; he ripped the heart from another and threw it atop the stained yellow armor. Someone had forced one of the great doors open again; white sunlight blazed through in a harsh narrow streak. More soldiers ran through, shouting—there were too many—he couldn't—he couldn't reach —

A crossbow bolt caught one robed woman in the throat. She coughed, gasped, grasped for her own neck; the woman beside her screamed, then hardened and reached for the blood where it spilled—

Her arm fell limp to stone, severed cleanly at the elbow. Another strong blow, the greatsword's blade whistling in the air; her head followed, eyes widened in mild surprise, and the body toppled after. Fenris, still straining in the crowd, could not stop the ferocious smile.

Carver stood in the open doorway, his sword still lifted, solid and fierce in the stark sunlight. He raised his eyes, found Fenris; he swung again and the last Tevinter soldier between them died with a hollow cry. "Fenris!" he shouted, and even so he could barely hear it. "Where's my sister?"

"The throne!" he shouted back, and guards and sailors from Carver's ship poured in around them, swords in hand, bows singing. "Danarius has come, Carver—he plans to kill—"

Fire exploded with a sudden roar, so enormous it filled the great hall nearly to the vaulted ceiling. Soldiers fell away, crying out at the blast of heat; Fenris threw up his arm over his face and turned.

Danarius had found Hawke. Fenris had lost him in the battle—forgotten, hidden—and now he stood at the base of the steps to the dais, staring up at Hawke with a curled smile on his face. His staff he held crosswise before him; the princess of Kirkwall had fallen to one knee on the highest step, both hands still outstretched, and between them raged a bank of fire. It strained from wall to wall and howled like a beast, writhed and sprang loose and was reined in again, flickers leaping free like frightened gazelles to land on wall hangings, clothing, the empty fireplace. Hawke's cheek was bleeding badly; something was wrong with her arm.

He should not have left her. His heart sang with fear. Carver snatched up his sword and waded into the fray; Fenris followed a half-step to his right and gold fell like autumn leaves before them. He could not have been stopped regardless, but with Carver he was untouchable, the movements effortless, the give and sway and yield and storm as easy as opening his eyes to morning. Aveline fell in at Carver's left, her shield steady and strong, and Varric's bolts shrilled overhead; together they cleared a path through Tevinter like a scythe through harvest grain.

Only a handful left—only two—one—

Danarius laughed. He thrust his staff into the air; his wall roared again and leapt for Hawke. Fenris shouted uselessly, but she flung out her arm and knocked it aside. The fire screamed into a crowd; a Tevinter shrieked and tore off his burning gloves.

"Look at this," Danarius said, cold smile gleaming, "this child toying with power. You fool. I've mastered the flame!"

Fenris burst through at last. Hawke's gaze leapt to him—he saw her breathing grow steady—and she rose with difficulty to her feet. Her bloody cheek was scarlet; her eyes held fire. "Have you? Well, I've befriended it. Shall we see whom it serves now?"

She held out her open hand and spoke a word. Fire sparked in her palm, poured from her eyes, swelled from the straight white bars of sunlight. It pooled and billowed and grew enormous with wroth; it stole flame from the wall Danarius still held and consumed it for its own strength. Danarius winced, then stepped back from the sweltering pressure. His staff faltered. His wall flickered, dipped, and thinned; he staggered a second time, fell to his knees.

Fenris let himself slow, then stop, and at his back the fighting died away. The mirrored length of his blade patiently reflected fire.

Hawke's face had gone white and stern, wreathed in brilliant flame. She met Fenris's eyes again, saw the answer written there; Danarius thrust up his staff with a panicked cry and the silver threads of his robes began to melt. The last of his mighty wall twisted up into the colossal column strung now between Hawke's open palm and the distant ceiling, churning like water.

It seethed in her grip, untamed, ravenous, ready to kill. She clenched her fist, and the fire arched into the air in blinding gold, hung starkly beautiful there, then dove for Danarius's heart.

He screamed as the fire came, as it crashed upon him and towered in place, turning all the hall's shadows hot and red. Fenris circled the blazing pillar, sword in hand. Danarius screamed again, devoured by the voracious light; his hand reached out of the flame towards Fenris and burned. The heat was unbearable. The air cracked and snapped with rage.

How long? A few moments—a lifetime. Danarius wailed, over and over. Horrifying—grotesque—cathartic beyond reason—

Fenris flicked his sword. "Enough."

The fire died immediately. Danarius knelt on charred stone, skin and robes alike scorched black in patches where his shield had failed. His breath came in shattered gasps. Fenris stepped before him; Danarius craned his neck up in blind animal panic. "Fenris," he croaked, and raised both palms in supplication.

"You are no longer my master," Fenris said, and each word fell clear as a stone dropped into still water. He reached out his hand, every glimmer of power dragged there to turn his arm a ghostly blue, and he wrapped his fingers around Danarius's heart and crushed it.

Danarius seized. His eyes rolled back in his head and his back arched; then he let out a soft little sigh and slumped sideways. Fenris let him, let the weight slide off his arm as it came back to the world. His fingers emerged bloody.

Everything was very still. His ears rang with both the absence of roaring flame and the roar of his own blood. The markings fired like lightning, his heart beyond his control; the white sunlight beat upon Danarius's face like a closed fist, the pale eyes already milky, the mouth slack and silent. Blood seeped from his opened body and began to pool.

"Fenris," said Hawke—again, he realized, the fourth time, or the fifth, and she seized his face in her hand. "Look at me. Please."

He looked at her. She was so beautiful, her blue eyes hard and worried, her cheek a sheet of red. There was blood on her left shoulder, staining the red tunic a deep wet crimson; the white linen shirt she wore beneath was scarlet to the elbow. "Hawke," he managed, his breathing thin and serrated, and he grasped at her with fumbling fingers. "Hawke, you're hurt—"

"It's flesh only. Just blood. I swear it, Fenris—I swear I'm all right. It hurts like the blazes, but I swear it won't kill me. Please, hold still, let me see you—"

His throat was so tight it ached. She passed her thumb over his cheek and it came away wet; her eyes softened, and he dropped the sword with a clang and carefully gathered her into his arms. She let him, resting her chin on his shoulder, and her good hand clutched into the back of his shirt. "Hawke," he said, and the words were tight too, shuddering, "forgive me—I'm sorry—I did not realize—"

"Hush," she murmured into his ear. "It's all right. Take one long breath—good. Again. Look at me. Are you here?"

"Yes," he said, though his hands trembled; her fingers curled around the back of his neck and his heart steadied. "Yes," he said again, and this time meant it. He turned, but he felt her shivering with pain against him, and he did not let her go. "Aveline?"

"Good news, Your Highness," she called. Donnic had one arm slung over his wife's shoulders; he limped badly as they approached, but he was smiling. "None of ours are dead. Two are down. Keran is awake again and talking. Ruvena will need the healers, but she should recover. Anders is already on the way."

Fenris reached out for Donnic's shoulder. "And you, my friend?"

"I think my knee's sprained, Captain. Your Highness." His eyes were bright with pain and the exhilaration of battle. "Fenris. To be honest, I can't feel a thing. It just won't hold me up."

Varric joined them, his crossbow inexplicably pristine and himself unwounded, though his leather coat was torn at the waist. "What about the Tevinters?"

"Most of them are dead." That was Carver, stepping over the bodies, his sword still naked in his hand. The blade was stained with blood. "There are a few left yet." He kicked one soldier who let out an agonized groan. Two Kirkwall guards, part of the recent flood through the opened door, descended upon her with many wrathful lengths of rope. "How's your slaver?"

"Dead." The reality slammed into him, buffeted him like waves over a rocky cliff. He clenched his jaw, forced the swells to subside. "He's dead."

"Good. Mess that'll make with Tevinter, but that's what the council's for."

"They're the ones whose very powerful ex-senator all but declared war on us by his lonesome." Hawke left Fenris, wavered only an instant before she threw her good arm around her brother's neck. "I thought I saw your ship on the road up, but I wasn't sure. How did you get here so quickly?"

"We could hear the warning bells clear from the harbor. We commandeered near every gear and plank up the side of the mountain, then I stole Bran's horse when I got to the top." He drew back from his sister, smiling, blue eyes merry. "He'll complain for years. Gods, your face is a mess."

"You're finally the beautiful one." She kissed his cheek, wiped uselessly at the red smear she left behind, and let him go. "Carver, will you take care of all this? I need to get Fenris out of here."

"No," Fenris said at the same time as Carver, and he took a step forward involuntarily as her brother caught her under the elbow. "You're wounded. We'll stay until Anders arrives."

"And you're white as paper and shining like the moon," Hawke retorted, even as a newly arrived medic descended upon her with bandages and vinegar. Aveline had already eased her husband to the dais stairs where another medic in white and black knelt before them. "Be angry with me if you like, but if you don't get your color back soon, I'm taking you away whether you want it or not. I don't care if you're the one in the crown out of the three of us."

His mouth tightened at the reminder, but her provocation had done its work, and comfortable irritation soon supplanted the dangerous black seas. The waves swelled, receded, vanished. Danarius was dead. He would be glad later; he would rage later. For now there were Kirkwall guards to care for and a very annoying healer to await.

Someone brought Hawke a chair. A dozen more medics arrived and spread themselves through the hall of groaning soldiers. Fenris stood with Hawke, his hand on her good shoulder to remind himself she still lived, and surveyed the room with fresh eyes.

Char stained every surface, even the high curved wooden beams that supported the vaulted roof. Bodies were being dragged to one side in neat rows; someone had tossed the robed woman's severed arm in a bucket and stood it unceremoniously atop her corpse. Blood spattered across the great tables pushed to the sides of the hall, over the floor where supplicants had so recently begged his favor. An hour ago, if that. How quickly everything Danarius touched turned to ruin.

He caught his breath. Hawke felt it; she looked up with a steady gaze, rested her hand atop his fingers. He seized her courage before his own could fail. "Thank you," he said, and the medics looked up; then, louder, to the rest: "All of you. My gratitude."

The room grew hushed, only murmurs now as the medics continued their work. Fenris found Aveline's eyes, then Varric's. "My gratitude," he said again, and his voice echoed off stone. "I meant to leave my past behind me, but it wouldn't stay there. You were injured today fighting my enemy. And now he is dead, and—" he faltered—Hawke squeezed his hand—he set his shoulders. "I was honored today to fight beside you. My thanks."

No applause; Kirkwall did not cheer such things. But broad smiles instead on every face, and nods, and a little laughter, and Donnic cheerfully clasping forearms with a soldier who wore a fresh bandage around her neck. No censure. No scorn for the death he had brought to their door. The swell of low, untroubled conversation rose once more.

"And you, Your Highness."

"What?" he said, startled. The woman who had been tending Hawke had moved on to Fenris, looking at him expectantly. Without his noticing Anders had arrived, and he bent now beside Hawke in the medic's place, tall and gangly as ever, his eyes piercing over his hooked nose. His long hands, curled around her shoulder, were alight with blue fire. Her eyes were shut; a new line of slender black stitches stretched along her cheekbone. "I don't understand."

"You're bleeding, Your Highness," the medic said with practiced patience. "From several places, actually."

Hawke's head snapped up. "Where?"

"I don't—" Fenris said, bewildered, but as he looked down the room swayed too far and he overcompensated on the return. He staggered, barely catching himself on the back of Hawke's chair. "I—feel nothing."

"Here," said the medic with a light touch to his shoulder, and there was white agony there after all, and across the small of his back, and the left side of his stomach, and his calf. "And here, and here…"

"Take him upstairs," Anders said brusquely. "I'll be there as soon as I can." His grip on Hawke was gentle, though, and as the blue fire died he smiled at her. "You'll live as well. The scar will be impressive."

"You know how much I love the reminders of all my great battles." Hawke stood, wavered again, and caught Fenris's arm. "Anders…"

"I'll come," he promised, more wry. "Let me tend to these others first. Ruvena has a nasty bump on her head, and I don't like the look of Donnic's knee."

"Thank you," she said, though Fenris saw how his smile faded as she turned away. Two more medics came alongside them, quietly bracing, and at last, bruised, limping, bleeding, alive—Fenris and Hawke made their way together from the hall.