The worst of it is that he doesn’t hate Fenris at all, he reflects the next morning - or at least, he presumes it’s morning. It could be the middle of the night, for all they know. He’s lost all sense of time; he has no idea even of the date any more.

No, he doesn’t hate Fenris, and that’s what makes all of this all the more painful. He’d dreamed of hearing an endearment from Fenris’ lips; maybe if those slavers hadn’t picked right then to interrupt, he might have heard one before it all went to the Void.

Would it have changed what happened after? He suspects not.

He knows he was being unfair. The elf did apologise - not once, but twice, in the space of only a few minutes; and what did Anders do?

He sighs to himself, aware of Hawke’s sudden keen glance as she turns her head to stare at him; but he can’t bring himself to even begin to attempt to explain any of the confused and unhappy thoughts running through his head.

She’s been a little distant towards him ever since they woke earlier to eat the reheated leftovers from the previous evening. How on earth the pot didn’t get knocked over and spilled during the fight with the Profane, he has no idea - but they were all glad of it.

Well, apart from the moment when they all tried to insist they weren’t really hungry and he should eat it all, which was -

He can feel his cheeks grow warm with remembered embarrassment and humiliation at the memory. Hawke had been stubborn, but so had he. In the end, they’d all shared the food equally before he’d carefully cleaned the pot with water from conjured ice, heated with a touch of fire magic.

(That’s one good thing - as long as he has mana to conjure ice from the very moisture in the air, they’re not going to die of thirst at least - and there are always underground rivers and lakes enough to keep the air damp enough to pull water from.)

She’s been silent since then; somehow it seems both he and Fenris have fallen out of her good books. He finds the silence hard to take and after a while, he drops back a little to walk with Varric. The dwarf seems willing to indulge his need to fill the silence without asking reasons why; they pass the time by thinking up different ways to punish Bartrand for his betrayal.

“Boiling in oil,” Anders suggests. Varric shakes his head.

“Too prosaic. Trapped in a cave with hungry bears, right at the spring thaw.”

“That lets him off too easy,” Anders disagrees. He ponders for a while; up ahead, Fenris prowls on point. Anders watches as the elf pauses near a crack in the rock, cocking his head to listen with those long elf ears before he glances back to shake his head before carrying on.

He feels Varric nudge him with an elbow in silent prompt. “Dipped in molten gold and left as a statue in the Viscount's Keep,” Anders suggests.

“Ooh. That's poetic!” Varric replies appreciatively.

“What are you two talking about?” calls back Hawke a little testily.

“What to do to Bartrand when I find him,” replies Varric.

“Any suggestions?” Anders adds.

“How about this one - let’s get out of here alive, then worry about what to do to Bartrand,” she replies.

“Ooh, touchy,” murmurs Varric sotto voce; Anders hums agreement. His eyes are still on the elf however.

“Say,” the dwarf continues, “those rock things back there....”

“The Profane?” supplies Anders.

“Yeah, those are the ones,” he nods. “How did you know what they were? I thought you Circle mage types didn’t get out and about into the big wide world much?”

“We don’t,” replies Anders with a shrug. “But I’ve got a good memory for almost everything I’ve ever read, and I remembered reading something about them once. I’m surprised you didn’t know about them yourself - the other name for them is rock wraiths. Legend has it that they were once dwarves - or the spirits of them, at any rate - that have wandered the Deep Roads so long that they’ve forgotten what they once were.”

“The rock wraiths are supposed to be dwarven legends,” Varric replies. “They’re myths!”

“That ‘myth’ back there very nearly killed Fenris,” Anders points out.

“Good job you were there to put him back together, huh, Blondie? Though it looked to me like Broody was saving your life first.” Varric looks up at him to gauge his reaction, his voice low.

“What’s your point, Varric?” Anders asks, though his voice is equally quiet.

“Only this - that the elf threw himself in harm’s way to save your life - and you seemed particularly distraught about it. Or do your eyes usually water when you’re healing someone, Blondie?”

He can feel his cheeks growing hot again.

“Varric -” he begins; the dwarf holds a hand up placatingly.

“Easy, Blondie. All I’m saying is, maybe give the elf a chance. It ever occur to you that maybe you’re not the only one hurting over what he did?”

They walk in silence for a while, until Anders can’t stand it any longer.

“He - he called me amatus,” he finally murmurs.

“I don’t speak Tevene, Blondie. Is that a bad thing, that he called you that?”

It’s Anders’ turn to be silent for a while. Varric lets the silence stretch out, until finally Anders is forced to answer just to drown it out.

“No,” he admits in a small voice. He can’t help the wistful tone in his voice.

The silence stretches between them until finally the dwarf takes pity on him.

“Talk to him, Blondie. Listen to what he’s trying to say, instead of what you think he’s trying to say.”

“I’ll... I’ll try,” Anders finally manages.

“Atta boy, Blondie.” Varric pats him on the back.

***

Fenris is aware of Anders dropping back to talk with Varric; much as he is aware of Hawke’s sharp glare and the terse silence she treats Anders to. Evidently she didn’t appreciate their waking her during the night, and now Anders is in disgrace with her almost as much as he is.

Part of him feels almost vindictively pleased that the mage is on the receiving end of her ire now instead of just him - but it is a small part; he feels more anger towards her, for the way she is treating Anders now, snubbing him. And - yes, for the way she dared to kiss him.

He had felt irrationally jealous as he was forced to stand there and say nothing as she’d claimed Anders’ lips and the mage had so easily given in to her, closing his eyes and surrendering. He cannot get the sight out of his mind - the way Anders’ eyes had flown wide at first, then darkened before fluttering closed as the mage leaned in, tilting his head a little as she stole his breath.

The sight of him afterwards, eyes drifting only half-open as he gasped for breath, a tinge of pink creeping across his face. Flushed, panting, wanting more.

Fenris’ imagination calls up an image of Anders like that for him. On his knees, perhaps, golden tresses loose and tumbling about his face, lips flushed and a little swollen as those honey-brown eyes drift slowly open to stare up at Fenris. He can picture himself leaning forward, one hand rising to fist in that silky golden hair, forcing the mage’s head back as he bends to kiss and lightly bite that slender white throat. Would Anders moan softly, perhaps? A breathy little groan, as Fenris slowly pushes him onto his back, pinning those slender wrists to the ground as Fenris rolls his hips against Anders’ groin, eliciting another moan from the mage -

He hears Hawke’s voice, waspishly sharp behind him as she speaks to Anders and Varric, and he suddenly recalls where he is and feels his face flush dark with sudden shame that he is thinking such things after what Anders said to him. The mage has every right to be angry with him - how much angrier would he be if he knew the thoughts running through Fenris’ head right now?

He pauses by another crack in the rock and peers within; he feels no stir of air upon his heated cheeks however, and the crack would be too narrow for any of them to pass. He moves on.

He remembers waking slowly to the sound of Anders’ voice as the mage healed him; to the way his voice cracked as he begged the elf to stay with him. If ever he’d doubted Anders harboured any feelings for him, then hearing the desperation in the mage’s voice had dispelled them. Somewhere deep inside, Anders still cares; of that he is certain. Varric has already seen it; the dwarf is correct. It is not merely his wishful thinking.

He cannot give up. Anders is rightfully angry - but Fenris cannot give up. He cannot get thoughts of the mage out of his head. There has to be some way to show him that he stands by his apology - that he is truly sorry and would do anything to make amends.

They emerge into a cavern, the rough-hewn walls of the passageway giving way to the more natural surface of rock walls, the remains of a shattered door littering the ground. Fenris picks his way past them carefully as he glances around. Tall rough-hewn pillars of stone, wreathed in what appears to be a strange form of lyrium that glows a baleful red, support the high vault of the ceiling, the lyrium bathing the cave in the nightmarish hue of blood.

Hawke glances around as she steps clear of the rubble. “What is this place?” she asks.

“This is the vault,” replies Varric as he and Anders come to join them. “The dwarves would have brought their -”

The dwarf breaks off, his words interrupted by the scrape of stone, another rock wraith - what Anders calls “Profane” - forming together, dark energies holding the rock together in a twisted parody of what might have been something mortal once. This one is far larger than the others.

“Be on your guard!” Fenris calls as he readies his blade; he feels energy lightly dance across his skin as it tightens with the familiar sensation of a shield spell as the mage casts barriers over them all. Then he lets his brands light with the familiar burn as he shifts partway into the Fade and leaps towards the rock wraith.

Other rock wraiths are forming around them, but Fenris concentrates on the first and largest. From somewhere behind him, he hears Anders’ voice a moment before ice fans out to encase the rock wraith’s feet, pinning it in place before Fenris lays into it with his sword.

He cannot spare a glance to see how the others fare; the ancient rock wraith claims all his attention though he is aware of their voices - the mage’s in particular; he takes heart as Anders swears then yells insults at the other rock wraiths. If the mage is shouting imprecations about the inhuman creatures’ unlikely parentage then he must be faring well, if terrified. Fenris can only feel admiration for the way Anders is handling himself in these fights; for one who has spent his life imprisoned, the mage has shown remarkable aptitude for keeping his skin intact in battle.

The rock wraith manages to get past his guard and he swears as it clips his arm, gashing it. Perhaps he should pay more attention to keeping his own skin intact.

He strikes a killing blow and the monstrous creature falls apart to the ground. He turns to stare at the others, but Anders gestures behind him, his eyes wide. “Fenris, look out!”

He rolls aside just in time, avoiding the creature’s blow as it reforms again. “Venhedis!” he swears, and readies his blade.

Twice more they smash the ancient rock wraith apart, only for it to reform itself again - though more slowly each time. They are tiring, the long hard battle steadily taking its toll upon them all. They throw everything they have into one last attack.

“Stand clear!” Anders yells, a note of desperation in his voice; they back away as the creature turns to lower threateningly, one massive stone foot taking a step towards the mage as he draws upon his magic. He flings one hand forward, wreathed in fire, then gestures up with both hands as flaming energies coalesce around him and then pulse as he releases the spell, falling to his knees as he unleashes a firestorm upon the rock wraith, fireballs raining down upon the creature.

Fenris cannot spare a moment to glance towards the exhausted mage; he lights all his brands full in a blaze of light and pain as he flings himself towards the rock wraith one last time. His blade strikes simultaneously with one of Varric’s explosive crossbow bolts; the resulting explosion hurls them all back off their feet.

The silence that follows is broken only by the sounds of pebbles and small rocks pattering to the ground all around them; and then Anders’ voice weakly calling, “Does anyone need healing?”

Hawke answers with a low groan as she gets to her feet; she heads towards the mage, who is slowly pushing himself up onto his knees. Fenris reaches him first and gently helps him up; Anders gives him a bewildered look but accepts the help. The mage seems dazed after exerting himself to cast the firestorm.

Varric stomps over, shaking his head as he glances towards the remains of the rock wraith. “These things aren’t even supposed to be real,” he mutters.

“Looked pretty real to me,” replies Hawke. She darts Fenris an odd glance as he remains at Anders’ side, supporting him with one hand around the mage’s slender waist, the other under Anders’ elbow as the mage stumbles slightly.

Fenris gives her a challenging look, not relinquishing his hold on the mage. She shakes her head then walks over to toe the fallen rubble.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” replies Varric as he moves past the remains of the rock wraith towards something at the back of the cave. “Look at what it was guarding!”

“Let’s see if there’s something that can help us get out of here,” replies Hawke as she follows Varric.

“Fenris?” Anders asks dazedly.

“Peace,” the elf answers quietly. “You exhausted yourself against the rock wraith. Let me help you.”

“For once, I’m not going to argue,” Anders replies tiredly. “Never cast anything that... destructive before. Took more out of me than I thought.” He stumbles; Fenris takes his weight easily, steadying him.

“Easy; I have you,” murmurs Fenris as they make their way slowly after the others.

“Why?” asks Anders wearily, a plaintive note creeping into his voice.

“Because you are too tired to stand unaided,” replies Fenris. “And... because I want to help you.”

“No... not this... I mean, why would you have let me die?” Anders goes on. He lifts exhausted eyes to stare at Fenris, and the elf halts at the look of deep pain he sees there which has nothing to do with Anders’ state of exhaustion.

“Because I was a fool, and afraid,” replies Fenris after a moment. “Because I did not yet know you.”

“That Profane should have killed me,” says Anders softly. “But you took the blow that was meant for me.”

“Yes,” nods Fenris. He stares back into Anders’ soft brown eyes as they slowly fill with tears, and he cannot help himself. He lifts a hand to cup Anders’ cheek; and Anders does not pull away.

“I could not let you die,” says Fenris gently. A single tear rolls down Anders’ cheek; Fenris wipes it away with his thumb, and smiles sadly at Anders. “I have been a fool. I am sorry.”

“Fenris -” begins Anders.

“Are you guys coming?” calls Hawke impatiently from somewhere ahead.

Fenris gazes at Anders. He wants to kiss him; Void take him, he wants it so badly.

Instead they follow the sound of Hawke’s voice.

Fenris feels light-headed from blood loss, a dull ache running through him like a dim memory of the agony that punched through him before. He could blame his slip of the tongue upon that, perhaps - except he doesn’t want to excuse it for anything other than what it is - the truth. He still loves Anders.

But as the mage remains silent, he finds himself struck by doubt. Perhaps he has been wrong. Perhaps whatever fleeting feelings Anders may once have had for him truly have been extinguished - killed off by his attack upon the man, destroyed by his own rage.

He has erred. Anders’ silence is answer enough.

“Maker’s balls, elf, I was sure you and Blondie were both dead for sure!” exclaims Varric as he and Hawke crouch down either side of him; Hawke reaches behind him to touch Anders’ shoulder.

“Anders? Maker - he’s out cold!” exclaims Hawke. And just like that, all Fenris’ doubts are replaced with concern and worry for the mage.

He sits up and leans away from Anders; Varric’s hand upon his shoulder steadies him as a sudden wave of dizziness sweeps over him at the sudden movement.

“Easy there, elf; Blondie’s healed you up but that’s still a lot of your blood you’re sitting in,” warns Varric.

“Not all of it’s his,” says Hawke darkly. Fenris turns and stares aghast; there is blood seeping through Anders’ clothes, and the mage’s face is white.

Varric helps him to his feet; Fenris can feel his strength returning slowly, but the dizziness makes him glad of the dwarf’s steadying hand before he can step away.

“Varric, a hand? I want to get him out of this mess so I can see where he’s bleeding,” asks Hawke. Fenris watches, feeling useless as they gently lift Anders up and away from the pool of blood - their blood, he realises; his and Anders’. He moves over to Anders’ abandoned pack and tugs out the mage’s bedroll, spreading it out for them to lay the unconscious man down before hunting through for bandages and a healing kit.

Hawke and Varric lay Anders down gently, and then Hawke peels open Anders’ tattered coat with a grim expression as she stares at the blood-soaked thin grey rags beneath. Carefully she peels back the tattered and patched linen and then exhales in a sigh of relief; the wound, though messy, doesn’t look too bad.

Fenris drops to his knees next to the unconscious mage as Hawke reaches for the healing kit; unable to stop himself, he reaches for the hem of the ragged shirt.

“Fenris, what are you -” Hawke breaks off as Fenris slowly pushes the fabric up, and then quietly swears to himself as he sees the mage’s ribs standing out sharply against the scarred pale white flesh.

“Oh no. Oh Anders,” Hawke murmurs; Varric cranes his neck to look and then he groans.

“Aw, Blondie,” he sighs.

Fenris reaches for the neck of the shirt and slowly unlaces it then gently brushes it open before running his fingers lightly over the sharp collar bones, down across the prominent ribs over scarred flesh - scars that he remembers so well from long nights of tending them - his fingers finding new scars here and there overlaying the old, and he can only wonder at what Anders has gone through since Fenris’ own actions drove the mage away.

His fingers halt just above the shallow yet messy wound, and he can see at once what has happened - the shard of rock that was rammed through his own body also tore into Anders’ body, a couple of inches below his ribs. Thin and half-starved as Anders is, he has little enough blood in him already - the loss and shock from the wound and the expenditure of his magic to save the elf has driven the mage deep into unconsciousness.

Did he even hear Fenris’ breathily-whispered amatus? He has no way of knowing.

“We need to get his coat off; that wound needs dressing,” remarks Hawke. “Fenris, can you lift him up?”

Between the three of them, they manage to strip the coat and blood-soaked shirt from the unconscious man, and then Fenris supports him upright as Hawke carefully dresses the wound. Anders’ shirt is fit for nothing more than rags, but Varric digs out the spare shirt from Anders’ pack. It, too, is worn thin and much patched and darned - but it is clean, at least.

Anders doesn’t stir - not even so much as a flicker of his eyelids - as they clean and dress the wound then Hawke tugs on the new shirt. It is only after, when Fenris is gently cradling him in his arms as Hawke attempts to coax a healing potion into him, that he finally opens his eyes dazedly. He stares up at Fenris in confusion, but he drinks the healing potion Hawke holds to his lips before his eyes close and he sinks down into a deep sleep.

It is with reluctance that Fenris finally lays Anders down upon the bedroll to sleep. He tucks the thin blanket from Anders’ pack around the sleeping mage then straightens, to find Hawke eyeing him almost accusingly.

“Fenris, what gives?” she demands. “You’ve done nothing but snipe at Anders this whole trip, almost going out of your way to make him miserable - and now, what? Suddenly you can’t keep your hands off him? You seriously expect me to believe you’ve finally come to your senses now, of all times?”

Fenris looks away, unable to face her piercing blue gaze as she glares at him.

“Your accusations are not without merit,” he says quietly. “I was... hurt by the way he reacted to me when we finally found him, though he had every right to be angry at me and I should have expected no less for what I did. But I let my pride get the better of me. I lashed out in turn, and I... I caused more hurt to him.”

He glances to Varric. “You saw it more clearly than I, Varric. I... still have feelings for him.”

Varric snorts. “Call it what it is, elf - you still love him; a blind nug could see that.”

“Anders evidently didn’t,” replies Hawke acerbically. “Did it ever occur to you to maybe just tell him, instead of continually hurting him?”

“I did not think he still had feelings for me,” confesses Fenris.

Varric groans and runs a hand over his face. “Broody, did it ever occur to you that maybe the reason he was so upset and hurt by everything you said was because he still has feelings for you?” he points out.

Fenris can feel his cheeks burning with embarrassment as he hunches in upon himself, ears drooping. “It... did not,” he admits unhappily.

Hawke sits back and frowns at him. “So what now?” she asks.

“I... do not know,” he shrugs. “I am not used to - to affairs of the heart. In Tevinter, slaves are not permitted to form attachments. Affection for another slave can be used to... harm. If one slave runs away, their lover would be the one punished. We did not dare grow attached to one another for fear of it being used against us.”

“Perhaps you should have tried listening to what Anders tried to tell you about life in the Circle, instead of fighting with him about it,” says Hawke darkly. “You might find that your experiences and his aren’t so different.” She and Varric exchange glances, and Fenris has the distinct impression that there is something he has missed here; something shared between the two rogues that he has not been privy to. Something involving Anders.

Fenris frowns and looks down at Anders’ pale face. “Perhaps,” he allows quietly.

“Fenris, when you first found Anders - what did you think?” asked Hawke.

“That he was an escaped slave,” shrugs Fenris. “He bore the signs of manacles about his wrists and ankles, and he had been whipped - as slaves are - and mistreated. What else was I to think?”

“And now? What do you think of the way he was treated - by templars?” she presses.

“That... perhaps I was wrong,” he admits tersely. “Hawke, why must you persist in badgering me? I concede that I was wrong - about this, and many other things concerning Anders. What would you have me do?”

“Do? How about stop hurting him every time he opens his mouth, for a start?” she demands. “For someone who claims to care for him, you do a damned poor job of showing it!”

He glares at her. “I love him!” he hisses.

“Then damned well start acting like it!” she hisses back.

“Now, kids, take it easy,” says Varric placatingly as he lifts his hands. “Let’s not fight over Blondie, least of all when he’s in no condition to have a say in the matter and hurt.” He glances at Fenris, who shrugs and sits back. Varric turns to Hawke. “Hawke?”

“Fine,” she shrugs in turn. “But this isn’t over, Fenris. I’m not going to stand by and watch you hurt him further.”

“Let’s save all this until we’re out of here and back on the surface, Hawke,” suggests Varric. “In the meantime, let’s all try and get some rest.”

“I shall take first watch,” offers Fenris. He knows that he feels too restless to sleep yet, even though he is weary, and he still feels a hollow, aching sensation deep in his guts. He is healed however - thanks to the man lying unconscious beside him.

No further harm will come to Anders, he tells himself. He will keep watch.


***

He awakens slowly to the feel of arms around him, a warm body pressed up against his back, a face nuzzled into his hair. Drowsy, not fully all the way awake, he smiles sleepily at the familiar feeling of being held. Safe, he thinks, and turns his face slightly to snuggle into -

Wait. Instead of the softness of a pillow, his cheek brushes feathers that smell of damp and blood. His eyes snap open to stare around himself, and in an instant he tenses with alarm.

The arm around his waist tightens, and as he glances down and sees tawny skin lined in lyrium silver he realises it is Fenris whose face is buried in his hair at the nape of his neck - Fenris who is awakening, holding him tighter, closer, and he cannot check the breathless whimper that escapes his lips.

“Peace, mage,” rumbles Fenris softly, his breath ghosting over Anders’ ear, drawing a shiver from the apostate. “I will not harm you.”

Anders swallows, his mouth dry with fear. “Past events beg to differ,” he manages to reply; he is inwardly impressed his voice is steady.

Fenris’ sigh is warm against his skin. “For which I am truly sorry.”

“Are you?” Anders’ tone is sharp as he tries to pull away from the elf. “Damn it, let me go!”

Fenris releases him, and he sits up, turning to glare down at the warrior; Fenris sits up slowly and shifts away, putting space between them, hunching over slightly as he stares up at Anders through the tousled, sleep-mussed white hair.

“I did not mean to alarm you,” the elf says quietly.

“You did far worse than alarm me!” hisses Anders. “You -”

“You saved my life,” interrupts Fenris. “I... thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Anders says sharply, biting off the words. He turns to rise then grits his teeth as the movement pulls at the wound painfully. He clutches at the bandages then glances down, only just registering that someone has dressed his wound and he is wearing his sole clean shirt. He glances back at Fenris.

“You were injured. You healed me but neglected your own wound,” shrugs Fenris. “Hawke dressed your wound. You do not remember her giving you the healing potion?”

He frowns, thinking back. He has a hazy memory of Fenris’ arms about him, the taste of elfroot upon his tongue -

No, wait. His frown deepens. He remembers -

His own arms around Fenris. Pain in his stomach, overwhelming weariness, his mana drained. Fenris’ voice....

“Amatus,” says Anders slowly as he looks up to find Fenris’ green gaze intent upon him. “You called me amatus.”

“I did,” replies Fenris. His face is shadowed behind the curtain of snow-white hair but his eyes are luminous, reflecting back the dim light. Like wolf’s eyes, he thinks. The thought is not a comforting one.

“It means -”

“I know what it means,” Anders interrupts him. “‘Beloved’. Did you think I wouldn’t understand? What makes you think you have the right to call me that, after everything you’ve done?”

“Mage... Anders, I-”

“Stop it!” hisses Anders. “You tried to kill me, or had you forgotten? Your hand was around my heart! You hurt me, and you keep on hurting me! You said you would have let me die if you had known what I was - and now you dare call me ‘beloved’??” His voice is rising, incredulous; he cannot believe this.

There is a cough, as Varric clears his throat; Anders nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Now, boys, easy there. Let’s all calm down now,” says the dwarf peaceably.

“Calm down? Varric, he’s done nothing but snipe at me and pick fights ever since we set foot in these damned tunnels. I’ve not heard one word of apology from him -”

“Has it occurred to you that maybe he’s trying? Perhaps you should give him a chance,” shrugs Varric. “It’s a long way to the surface and we only have each other down here to rely on. Broody’s trying to make amends. How about you meet him halfway?”

“Halfway??” exclaims Anders. “Varric, he -”

“I apologise,” interjects Fenris.

“What?” Anders blinks at him. The elf shrugs, his ears drooping.

“I apologise,” he repeats. “I am sorry. I have treated you shamefully, and I should not have done. I would make amends, if I can.”

“How?” demands Anders. “You tried to kill me!!”

The elf flinches, and he regards Anders with wide, unhappy eyes. Like a kicked puppy, Anders thinks, and feels a stab of unexpected guilt. It only serves to make him angrier.

“No!” he declares as he gets to his feet. “No, you don’t get to look at me that way, you - stop it!”

Hawke stirs, sitting up as she looks around. “Anders? What’s all the shouting about?” She frowns. “Should you be up yet? How do you feel?”

“Fine,” he lies, as he turns away. “I’m fine, Hawke. Go back to sleep; I’ll be OK.”

“Anders...” murmurs Fenris.

“Leave me be, Fenris,” he growls as he grabs his bedroll and drags it over beside Hawke. He stretches out upon it with his folded coat for a pillow, and turns his back to the elf.

He closes his eyes, but sleep is elusive. He is all too aware of the elf’s eyes upon him.