It was a bad feeling, anything connected to the Fade always was. A trap, a curse for anyone too weak, too full of sins, too insecure. But Hawke? Hawke was anything but that. And then it closed—the choice was made.

Fenris felt it again, deep in his stomach, like he'd swallowed nails and steel. That deep, gnawing ache, like blades cutting him open. He wanted to scratch at the feeling, but it only made him paler, the cold sweat sticking to his skin. And when reality settled in, that’s when the heart broke. The heart he’d kept so guarded after everything—how many times had it shattered? How many times had he let someone in only to feel the weight of loss again? It broke once more, just when he needed you the most. Cruel. It was cruel that Hawke had given him everything, all when Fenris was ready to try, to open himself to love—even if cold and hesitant. But that was how Fenris loved. And just when he finally let his guard down, the Fade swallowed you.

How dare you.

The red cloth was wrapped around his wrist again, as was the scent of lingering wine around the estate. What was it now? Days? Weeks? Months? He couldn’t tell anymore. The servants had left. Shadows and dust covered the portraits of Hawke’s family. The fireplace crackled softly, casting flickers of light across the room—a setting all too familiar. Remember? The estate. The wine. But this time, Fenris had lost someone he loved. And he was angry. Furious.

The door creaked open, but he didn’t care. He hurled the empty wine bottle at it, smashing it against the wall. “Leave!” His voice was rough, raw.

Heavy footsteps followed. Armor clanked, tired and slow, approaching from the doorway. Fenris, ready to shout again, spun around—

His breath caught. No, he wasn’t that drunk, not to imagine this. Hawke stood there, barely upright, but there.

With that familiar smirk, Hawke muttered, “You always did throw like a templar with a hangover.”